The Imposter
by usa123
Summary: After a near death experience, Steve isn't acting like himself. He sleeps most of the day, doesn't leave the Tower when he's awake, and generally keeps to himself. The Avengers are understandably concerned, but they also want to give Steve a chance to heal at his own pace. That all changes when Steve vanishes from the Tower and tries to assassinate U.S. President Garcetti.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Please don't sue.**

* * *

"_Aliens_?" Tony Stark repeated in disbelief. "Again?"

The Avengers had received a distress call from New SHIELD about an hour ago and had just assembled at the organization's Manhattan base. Steve was dressed in the stealth suit Tony had designed—and actively considered one of his finer creations—and was paging through the folder Fury had distributed. Though Steve didn't appear to be actively listening to what the SHIELD's former director was saying, Tony had no doubt he was still absorbing and prioritizing the details.

Sitting on Steve's right was Barnes, also in a darkened SHIELD uniform. He wasn't exactly smiling, but he looked as content as Tony had seen him in a while.

It had been a long year since Barnes had collapsed at the front door of Avengers Tower while trying to see Steve. He had been critically malnourished and suffering from a host of other physical issues. His body had healed at a speed second only to Steve's, but his mind had taken a lot longer. It had come out at one point that he thought he'd killed Tony's parents, and while Tony had initially been furious, after a lot of time and therapy, he'd come to realize that Barnes was just the weapon and not the mastermind, which only fueled his motivation to take out as many Hydra bases as possible.

That wasn't to say it was all smooth sailing. Tony had initially felt resentful when Steve spent all his free time around Barnes, but he'd swallowed it down because he knew he'd do the same thing for Rhodey if their situations were flipped. Still, it was hard to see the relationship he and Steve had forged after the Battle of New York take such a backseat, even though, deep down, he understood and agreed with Steve's choice.

Things between them started getting better once Barnes' condition was determined to no longer be critical, thanks in no small part to Barnes' therapist, who said Barnes needed time on his own to start figuring out his place in the world again. Steve had slowly worked his way back into Tony's and the rest of the team's lives, and was constantly thankful for all they'd done to help out his friend.

Still, Tony and Barnes butted heads more than he and Steve had ever done: little things, big things, on missions, at team-building events. Words were said by both sides in the heat of the moment, often later forgiven, but they burned long and bright all the same. It was only once the two of them had seen how their bickering was hurting Steve that they'd both agreed to keep it civil. Initially, Tony had just done it for Steve's benefit, but as time passed, he found himself disliking Barnes less and less. It didn't hurt that Barnes had been allowed to start running missions for SHIELD, which improved his general demeanor. Plus, last week, at one of the 'Bring Steve and Barnes up to date' events the rest of the Avengers kept putting on, Barnes had actually cracked a joke that Tony found mildly funny, which left him thinking that a friendship might, one day, not be totally out of the realm of possibility.

Sam Wilson, the other newly-acquired Avenger after the whole Triskelion disaster, sat predictably on Steve's left. Though he wasn't who Barnes and Tony were seeing for therapy—he stated repeatedly he wasn't qualified for that sort of trauma—Sam had helped smooth over a bunch of smaller issues between various members of the team before they became divisive. His zero-bullshit tolerance had quickly endeared him to Rhodey, who had more than once reveled in the fact that they now had another completely sane person on the team.

Today, however, in direct contrast to what Rhodey thought about Sam's sanity, Sam was trying to read the mission briefing over Barnes' shoulder. Without looking back, Barnes reached over and flicked his metal hand at Sam, who backed up a little but didn't retreat entirely. Instead, he just sat up straighter, craned his neck more, and continued reading. It was a testament to how far Barnes had come that that's where the situation ended, and no one walked away with a faceful of bruises.

Across the table sat Natasha and Clint, who were fresh off a mission from places unknown and were shoveling in food at a Thor-like rate. Clint had a large bandage wrapped around his bicep, and Natasha was slightly paler than usual, but both had assured Fury they were in fighting shape. Their two briefings were splattered with ketchup and fry sauce, but were somehow getting reviewed all the same. That was a feat in itself since Tony hadn't seen Natasha or Clint let go of their food in at least five minutes.

They'd only spoken about the collapse of SHIELD once, right after it had happened. Natasha and Clint weren't quite themselves, which only proved how much the Hydra realization had shaken both of them. The creation of New SHIELD seemed to have helped ground them again, and it hadn't escaped Tony's notice how much time they were both spending with Barnes; he'd never say this on record, but it was equally hard not to notice how much Barnes was benefiting from it. The two of them seemed to be filling a gap Bucky found with Steve—probably what it was like to be mind-controlled by an evil megalomaniac, since unless the history books had left that tidbit out, it seemed to be the only experience of theirs Steve didn't share.

Thor was off-planet but Bruce was sitting next to Clint, flipping through a briefing of his own. He was weathering the 'SHIELD is actually Hydra' news quite well, mostly due to his efforts to stay off-radar, no matter who was in charge. Though he quite often took trips to other countries to work, much like he had been in India when Natasha had found him, he had moved his few things into the Tower and could be found there more often than not.

"Not aliens," corrected Nick Fury, drawing Tony out of his thoughts, "just their tech."

"I don't remember the Chitauri having any weapons like this," Steve said as he tapped a surveillance image in the briefing. The images were stills from a Raleigh bank robbery two nights ago, but instead of a familiar staff with a glowing oval on the far end, the weapons looked more like modern guns with glowing power cells added on. "Buck?"

Barnes just shook his head, his eyes not leaving the briefing in front of him.

"Yes, someone is out there modifying Chitauri weapons, but that's outside the scope of your assignment. In three days, the heads of Costa Grava are meeting with President Garcetti, for the first time in their nation's history. After this intel was brought to my attention, I tried to get Garcetti to cancel the ceremony on the South Lawn, but he refused." Fury said the last sentence through a deep scowl, which didn't disappear as he continued, "I need you all to make sure the ceremony goes smoothly."

"And no one gets evaporated by Chitauri weapons," Tony said. "Copy that."

Fury glowered at him, but it was an expression Tony had a lot of practice ignoring. Before he could fire off a retort, Clint spoke up, around a mouthful of burger. "The state dinner seems like another big security risk. Maybe we should attend that too."

Tony winced preemptively, fully expecting Natasha to bury her knife-like elbow into Clint's side, but she just looked up from her own burger and nodded in agreement.

Fury eyed both of them, who nonchalantly returned to eating. "I suppose that wouldn't be a bad idea…"

That was odd; the two SHIELD agents usually avoided public ceremonies like the plague. Tony made a mental note to ask the two of them about the state dinner later.

He then glanced down at the briefing he had yet to open, in favor of the very early 2000s-eque Powerpoint being projected on the far wall. "So," he then spoke up, "if the event isn't for another three days, why is Cap in uniform?"

"Just got back from a mission," Steve replied as he flipped the last page of the briefing and closed it with both hands.

"Same mission as the Terror Twins? Or the same one as Buckaroo?"

Steve just looked over at Tony, grinned, and said, "That's classified," at the same time Bucky might have growled slightly. Probably at the nickname. Or that was just how he breathed normally. Tony wasn't about to ask for clarification.

Part of Tony wanted to demand the real answer but the rest of him was excited to see something on Steve's face other than the doom and gloom expressions of the past year—yes, Barnes was back, which was exciting for Steve, but it had been a long road getting him weaned off the drugs, for him to stop obeying every command thrown his direction, and to start being his own person again. So, Tony dug deep and forced his own curiosity to the back burner.

"Now that we have that settled," Fury spoke up again, "it's time to discuss the plan."

* * *

Three days later, the team, dressed in black tie formal attire, were spread out around the edge of the South Lawn. A stage had been set up closest to the backside of the White House with ten rows of meticulously straight white folding chairs radiating away from it. A thick aisle cut down the center of the rows, allowing direct access to the stage.

Dressed impeccably as usual, Tony was sitting in one of hard plastic chairs, having merited a legitimate invite on his notoriety alone. This invitation was basically an all-access pass to the night's events and would put him in places the other Avengers, most of whom were disguised as security, might have trouble going. He pretended to examine the booklet he'd been handed, but in reality he was paying attention to the HUD in his glasses which was scanning the faces of everyone who walked by him.

Quiet chatter buzzed from the comm in his ear, mostly background noise, but every so often it was punctuated by one of the other Avengers commenting on the situation. As the last scan returned nothing noteworthy, Tony realized it had been a while since he did a visual inspection. He pulled his sunglasses down and rested them on the back of the chair in front of him, so they could continue their facial scans, while he took his own look around the quickly crowding area.

Though the rest of the team was undercover, it was hard to miss Steve, who was wearing a standard black security outfit, complete with thick sunglasses and a black baseball cap. He was standing behind the last row of chairs, and for once, he fit in completely with the glasses and ball cap ensemble. Tony continued scanning the lawn until he saw Clint off to his left, and Natasha to his right, both dressed identically to Steve and keeping a watchful eye on the event's attendees. Barnes was on the opposite side of the stage from Tony, looking surprisingly calm despite being thronged by people from all directions. Finally, Sam was at the back end of the lawn, helping people through the security checkpoint.

Not dissimilar to airport security, the guests were being sent through metal detectors, and were being forced to remove jackets and shoes. Bruce had also added a bar to the underside of the metal detector, which searched for radiation patterns similar to the ones Loki's staff had emitted**. **So far, that hadn't turned up a thing.

Speaking of Bruce, he and Fury were sitting in a news van parked around the block. Since Fury was supposed to be dead, he wouldn't be showing his face at all; Bruce only would if the situation turned sour.

Moments before the last guest had arrived, a presidential aid took the stand and asked everyone to find a seat. While Natasha and Clint were drafted into helping find places for the crowd at the back of the lawn, Tony slid his sunglasses back on his nose and quickly browsed the final results of JARVIS' scans. None of the faces the glasses had scanned had come back with any alerts, which was surprisingly good news. Maybe the Avengers wouldn't be needed here after all. It wouldn't be the worst thing, considering the insane number of missions Steve, Natasha, Clint and now Barnes had been running.

Just as the opening speaker was taking the stage, a tightly-bunched group entered from the right side of the lawn. When they got to the front row of seats, the husky and heavily-armed men on the exterior peeled away, allowing Julian Andrade, the President of Costa Grava, and his family to sit down in the second row. The guards then assumed the empty seats around the family, including those seats directly behind them. Andrade's youngest daughter, a cute thing with pigtails wider than her entire body, proceeded to steal the show. Instead of sitting straight, she stood up in her chair, turned slowly in a circle and waved at all the people watching her. The attendees collectively 'aw'd until Andrade gently took his daughter's arm and maneuvered her back into her seat.

President Garcetti then took the stage with his wife and bade welcome to the Costa Gravans. When their address was finished, he introduced speaker after speaker who showered the visitors with songs and speeches and poetry.

Tony might have zoned out slightly—there was only so many child performers he could watch in one sitting—and before he knew it, it was time for Andrade to give his address. Tony tensed as Andrade took the stage and his hand automatically hovered over the Iron Man bracelet on his wrist, but the Costa Gravan's speech finished without a single interruption. Grinning widely, Andrade shook Garcetti's hand with both of his and resumed his seat.

Then it was time for the closing, which would be led by the Garcettis. As they took the stage again, Tony heard some rustling on the comms and looked over to see Clint, who was standing directly behind him in the aisle, tense.

"What?" Tony hissed.

"I don't know," Clint replied. "Just… be ready."

Garcetti thankfully was short-winded in his closing remarks and was met with a great ovation. As the procession to the Blue Room was set to begin, Tony felt the hair rising on the back of his arms. It took him only a second to realize that was static electricity.

He lunged to his feet, smacking his bracelets as he did so, and screamed, "Get down!"

Clint and Natasha were already sprinting down the aisle and tackling the now-standing Costa Gravans to the ground. Their local security was starting to draw on the two SHIELD agents, until they heard the sound of a very powerful weapon being discharged. Their priorities changed in an instant and they began shielding the Andrades and hustling them off the lawn.

A split second later, a blue ball of pure energy sped through the air, obliterating the podium and leaving a two-foot-wide hole in the stage's backdrop.

Tony didn't have time to look around for the rest of the Avengers. His mission from Fury was to protect the First Family, as well as the Costa Gravans. Thankfully, he heard a different sort of flight pattern incoming, and a beat later, his suit enclosed around him. As the HUD burst to life, Tony spun around and fired off a shot in the direction the blast had come from. Then he turned to the Secret Service, who were scrambling to get the First Family off stage.

"Are they hit?" he shouted into the comms.

"Negative," Sam replied from somewhere off to Tony's right.

The invitees around him were screaming in fear, but before the noise drowned out the comms, JARVIS filtered it out.

A second blast buried itself just in front of the first row of seats, narrowly missing the Costa Gravans, Clint and Natasha. Having hit the deck again, this time they remained prone, while forcing the visiting family to crawl toward the wings, where more protection lay.

"Do we have origin on the blast?" Fury demanded.

"Southwest," Barnes said, which was confirmed by JARVIS a split second later. "Half a mile."

"I'm on it," Steve said. Without waiting for a response, his footsteps sped up and his breath quickened. "Get everyone else to safety."

"I'm with—" Barnes began, but Natasha cut him off.

"We need you here, in case there's more than one shooter."

"I'll be fine, Buck," Steve called, and in the background of the comms, there rose a cacophony of car horns and incensed shouts.

Barnes cursed loudly and colorfully before grunting out, "You'd better be."

"What's the plan?" Clint shouted, seconds before a third blast obliterated the remnants of the podium.

Natasha quickly and concisely laid out her strategy for getting everyone off the lawn safely, finishing with, "We could use an assist, Bruce."

"Dr. Banner has already exited the van," Fury said before his line went silent.

He needn't have bothered responding. In almost that same second, Tony heard a very familiar roar and saw the Hulk scale the metal detector and plant himself in front of the stage, blocking the path to the Secret Service and First Family.

Now the alien blasts started coming faster and in groups of three. Thankfully, they all seemed to be aimed at the stage, which was now empty, so it was mostly the plastic chairs that were disintegrated. However, a few unlucky reporters, who refused to give up their exclusive, were hit by flying pieces of plastic or wood as they attempted to trail the First Family.

Tony continued funneling people behind the stage and toward the safety of the White House, every so often firing a repulsor back toward the origin of the blasts, hoping to take out the shooter. At that distance, he probably wasn't hitting anyone, unless they'd moved closer since Barnes' original half-mile estimate.

"I've located the building," Steve said, and his breathing increased as he presumably tore up the stairs. "Seems like one shooter. 35th floor."

"Be careful." Tony was surprised to hear that coming from Clint and not from Barnes, who just hummed what must have been an agreement.

Steve didn't respond again, but Tony heard signs of a fight in the background. He couldn't spare it much thought though as blasts continued to rain down on the stage and he had to focus on keeping reporters from getting themselves killed.

"There has to be another shooter!" he shouted as he picked up a well-dressed man by the back of his jacket and hauled him toward the wings of the stage. There was no way the blasts were this regular, if Steve was fighting what he had said was the lone shooter.

Just then, JARVIS honed in on the origin of the second set of blasts; they were being fired from the business across the street from the original data point, and had only started once the original had stopped.

"I got it," Sam said and not long after, he was soaring through the air with the new set of wings Tony had designed. "Stark, you stay with the First Family."

There were two sets of fighting sounds now, but thankfully, the blasts had stopped.

"There's no one here," Sam reported. "Gun was firing by itself." There was a creak then a moment later, he added, "Apartment is empty and no one in any direction."

"Lock it down, then get back to the lawn," Fury ordered. "I'll send the techs up in a minute."

By this time, the lawn had just been cleared of its final occupant. Tony was about to follow security into the White House when he heard a loud thud over the comms.

"Check in!" he demanded, and Natasha, Clint, Barnes and Sam quickly did. The Hulk was still standing as a wall in front of the stage, which just left Steve.

"Get me his location," Barnes snapped and Tony didn't have to look up to know the former Soldier was sprinting off the lawn.

"Report, Steve!" Clint shouted so loudly that JARVIS lowered the volume on Tony's comm.

"Still here," Steve finally said, though his voice was thin and he sounded winded. "Could use some backup." Then the fight must have resumed, since all Steve's comm continued to transmit were grunts, crashes, and gasps.

"Go Stark," Fury said, just as Tony saw police cars and more SHIELD agents approaching. "We can handle it from here."

Tony motioned for an extra set of guards to take his place on the side of the ruined stage then took off. "JARVIS, track Steve's location."

"35th floor," Steve grunted out between what sounded like a combination of blows.

Tony had just reached the block JARVIS had highlighted on the HUD, when Steve cried out. Then a large mass thudded to the ground over the comms, and Tony's blood ran cold.

"Steve!" Clint shouted again, but this time received only muffled gasping in response.

Tony ducked his head to cut down on resistance and poured on speed. In the HUD, JARVIS was highlighting the window of the 35th floor, but Tony didn't need the assist. He saw the tip of a weapon sticking out of a small opening in the window and crashed through above it, taking the impact with his crossed forearms.

Steve was crumpled on the floor on the far side of the room, his hands clamped around his leg. A man loomed over him, holding a wicked looking staff, whose corkscrew tip was dripping blood and was poised to deliver a final blow.

Tony fired both repulsors, sending the man crashing into the far wall. He heard an unpleasant crunch, and spared a second to make sure the man wasn't moving before he turned to Steve, who had gone a frightening shade of pale. His eyes were wide and unfocused and his mouth was struggling to form words.

"Scan," Tony ordered JARVIS.

"Got… th' artery," Steve sputtered as his gaze _finally _locked on to Tony's, and Tony's heart sank as he saw the edges of panic in Steve's normally stoic expression.

"I have to agree with Captain Rogers," JARVIS stated.

"What do I do?" Tony shouted as he leaned over and pressed his hands on top of Steve's, eliciting a groan from the soldier.

"Tourniquet, pressure bandage," JARVIS continued to list things Tony didn't have around.

"Other options."

"Cauterize," Steve gasped.

Tony's stomach rolled at the suggestion. He'd accidentally burned himself many a time with his repulsors on low, and knew how painful that was. He'd almost certainly need a blast of higher strength to knit Steve's skin together, which would inflict a horrific amount of pain.

"Other options," he repeated.

"None," Steve managed, at the same time JARVIS reported that Steve was going into shock.

God damn it.

Stats rolled on the HUD, eventually narrowing to just one percentage, which grew in size and flashed in Tony's eye line. "A blast of that strength should close the wound, without doing excessive damage to the surrounding tissue."

_Should_. They were banking a whole helluva lot on _should_.

"Do it," Steve said, unevenly.

Tony wanted to do anything _but_ that, but they were out of time and viable options. By JARVIS' calculation, Steve had already lost a liter and a half of blood.

"J, calibrate." Hopefully, the blast would overload Steve's pain receptors and knock him out, thus sparing him additional agony until he could get the good drugs at the hospital. "On three, Steve, move your hands."

Steve nodded, then to Tony's horror went slack. Tony slammed down his hands harder against Steve's lifeless ones, pinning them in place. "Calibrate faster, J!"

"Calibration complete," JARVIS reported five agonizingly long seconds later.

Tony shoved Steve's hands out of the way, took one second to locate the epicenter of the large, spurting gash in Steve's right leg, then pushed the center of the repulsors against it.

"Fire, J."

Tony heard the sound of Steve's skin sizzling and was never more thankful for the private air supply in his suit. He just moved his hand up a few inches and gave the order to fire again. After the third time, he pulled his blood-soaked repulsor away and took a look at the damage. The skin that had been in contact with the repulsor was blistering red and angry, and there were small flecks of blue in the wound, presumably from Steve's pants, but it was no longer bleeding.

Tony retracted one of his gauntlets and felt at Steve's neck for a pulse. It was slightly uneven, but present.

"Get medical over here," he ordered in a thick voice. Then he turned his back to Steve, opened the face plate of the suit, and retched.

* * *

**And that's the end of chapter one! I hope you enjoyed the start of my completely self-indulgent AU which gets me Sam, Bucky, Tony, Steve and JARVIS together for over 70 thousand words. So many thanks are owed to RobotRollCall who beta'd this fic and made it even better than I could have imagined. You guys are in for a wild ride!**

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought! **


	2. Chapter 2

Around the time Tony's stomach tried to invert itself a third time, he heard a crash at the door. As his face plate smacked back down, Tony jerked upright, activated his right repulsor and aimed it up at the source of the sound. The HUD lit up with attack vectors and weapon choices, while unbidden, his stomach lurched again and he begged whoever was up there to keep him from vomiting inside his suit.

"It's Barnes," a voice shouted before the door flew off its hinges and none other than the former Soldier burst into the room, machine gun up and steady in his grip. It was a direct contrast to Tony's repulsor which was quaking with the radiating aftershocks of his sympathetic nervous system.

Barnes didn't wait for Tony to lower his hand and continued to scan the room through the gun's sights. He apparently didn't find any threats for he slid the gun onto his back and fell to his knees next to Steve. "How is he?" he asked as he began running his hands over Steve's body, feeling, presumably, for broken bones or injuries other than the angry red wound on his leg.

Not yet trusting himself to move his left hand which was helping keep him upright, Tony deactivated the right repulsor then used it to push open the face plate. Fresh air rushed against his skin and he felt his stomach calm briefly. But then he caught a whiff of burnt skin, which sent his insides rolling all over again. He would not be sick, he vowed as he swallowed hard and steeled his spine. He could hold it together for Steve's sake.

In response to Barnes' question, a thin red beam shot out of Tony's gauntlet and spread itself in a wave over Steve, indicating JARVIS was performing another scan. A holoscreen dropped out of the HUD, revealing Steve's vitals, which were steady albeit far from normal.

"He's alive," Tony reported to Barnes, flipping the holoscreen so the former Soldier could see. "But he needs medical attention."

"So take him!"

Inside the suit, Tony's arms and legs were shaking, with shock or memories he wasn't sure, but the end result was the same; he could not be responsible for flying while carrying Steve. He quickly considered calling one of the a legion, the army of autonomous suits he had developed last year, but they were statistically bad at turning while carrying cargo and tended to break said cargo in the process. JARVIS could pilot Tony's suit smoothly but he suffered from the same carrying issues as the legion, though not as badly. Still, it was too much of a risk for Tony to take, with Steve in his current condition.

Tony's skin, already cold and clammy, turned icy and his teeth began to chatter. He'd been trying to keep his own issues at bay until Steve was situated, but it didn't seem like that was much of an option anymore. "I can't," he ground out.

Thankfully, Barnes didn't press the matter. His expression didn't so much as falter as he lifted his wrist to his mouth and said, "Wilson, we need a lift." A beat later, the pararescue replied that he was on his way.

Less than a minute later, Sam sailed through the window Tony had broken earlier. Bucky quickly summarized the situation, and Sam barely gave Tony a second glance before bundling Steve into his arms and flying out the window.

Which left Barnes and Tony together in the same room. If Tony hadn't been so hyped up on adrenaline, this would have had his skin crawling. As it was though, it was barely a footnote in the previous series of events.

He expected Barnes to follow Steve to the hospital, which would give Tony a chance to regroup in peace, but instead, Barnes turned to face him and asked, "You okay?"

_No_, was his immediate thought as his stomach rolled again and the vice around his ribs tightened another notch.

"I need a minute," was the response he was able to vocalize, once the shock of the question had worn off.

Barnes nodded swiftly then grabbed his gun and stood. "Go with them," he said. "I'll finish up here."

"You should—"

"Go with him," Barnes insisted, his tone low and rough, with just a fraction of… pleading?

Whatever it was, Tony found himself unable to disagree. "Okay."

Barnes nodded again, then quickly strode out of the room, leaving Tony alone with the bloody staff, a sniper rifle powered by alien tech, and a lifeless assassin.

He had to get up. He had to follow Steve.

But in that brief moment, the shock of what he'd been asked to do to save Steve's life fully sank in, bringing with it panic and pain and dredging up memories he wanted nothing more to forget. His body began shaking so violently that his teeth were gnashing together and for an indeterminate amount of time, he was unable to move, act, or even think clearly as it all washed over him.

"Sir," JARVIS then said, barely audible through the rush in Tony's ears. "I do believe you are having a panic attack."

He couldn't. Not now.

With great effort, Tony began forcing the panic aside and shoving the memories back into the lock box buried at the back of his mind. He could process it all later, over a stiff drink, when Steve was stable and he was alone.

Even with that mindset, it took a long few minutes for him to ground himself and be breathing semi-stably again.

"Hospital, J," he then ordered, superficial damage to the suit on the tight turns be damned.

"As you wish, sir," was the AI's only response.

As JARVIS fired up the thrusters and lifted the suit into the air, a heater kicked on and soft, classical music drifted from the speakers. Then, the face plate closed slowly, leaving Tony breathing fresh, clean, filtered air, and _finally_ he felt his joints begin to relax.

"May I be so bold as to say that your actions surely saved Captain Rogers' life?" JARVIS said as he ran through the autonomous pre-flight checks.

He could, but that didn't make what Tony'd done any easier to stomach. There were too many memories of someone doing something similar to him all those years ago.

"Just get me there, J," Tony said, as his shaking began to slow under JARVIS' ministrations.

A few seconds later, the HUD flashed green, and JARVIS lifted the suit into the air and through the window.

They had only flown a few miles when JARVIS spoke up again. "Agents Barton and Romanoff are demanding to know how Captain Rogers is."

That was when Tony realized his comms had been totally muted. Probably by JARVIS in the middle of his… moment.

"Sergeant Barnes has been less than vocal, which is causing great concern."

"Patch me through," Tony ordered. He pulled in a few deeper breaths and forced himself to exude calmness and a sense of control before his comm came back online.

"What happened?" Fury demanded barely a second later.

"Steve got stabbed by a Chitauri weapon. Sam took him to…" And that was when Tony realized he didn't know where Sam was taking Steve. He didn't remember Sam mentioning it, but it was possible he hadn't considered that information pertinent in the heat of his rapidly building panic.

"Washington General, sir," JARVIS reported on the private channel.

Tony relayed that to the rest of the team, then added, "I'm on my way there now."

"Good," said Natasha, and the sentiment was quickly echoed by a few others.

"And Barnes is on his way back toward you," Tony said, by way of warning. Barnes hadn't gone off-script for a while now, but anything was possible when Steve was hurt. It wouldn't hurt to be prepared.

"I got him," Clint said, before his comm clicked off.

"We'll see you soon," Natasha said before hers did the same.

* * *

Updates from the doctors were far and few between—not because they didn't have any good news once they finally walked into the waiting room, but because they had been so occupied with stabilizing Steve that they hadn't had time until right then. Despite the amount of money Tony offered, he and Sam hadn't been allowed in the observation room of the operating theater and had instead been guided to a private waiting room, just a few doors away.

Tony despised waiting in all its forms, and he was 150% sure he was driving Sam insane with his constant questions. To his credit, Sam just calmly answered as many as he could before suggesting Tony check in with his company or his lab to distract himself. Tony had done so and had been occupied for about fifteen minutes. Just as he was starting to get anxious again, a dark-haired doctor stepped in and told them Steve had a long road ahead of him but that he was stable and was expected to make a full recovery. Tony and Sam weren't allowed in post-op, but they could wait in Steve's room if they wanted.

They didn't even check with each other before agreeing. The doctor then led them to the empty room, which was primed with all sorts of equipment attached to the wall and hanging from the ceiling, before excusing himself.

The room was just like every other hospital room Tony had been in, complete with the sterile and overwhelmingly antiseptic smell that was currently making his skin crawl. Before he ended up too far down that path, he pulled up his phone and centered it over the security camera in the corner so JARVIS could start taking over the feed.

Behind him, Sam had apparently tuned back into the comms, since his next words hit Tony in stereo. "Steve's going to be fine," he announced, and received a loud whoop from Clint in return. "He'll be down for a while, but he should make a full recovery."

"Have you seen him?" Barnes asked.

"No, he's still in post-op."

"For how much longer?"

"We don't know," Sam said gently. "Are you all alright?"

"I'm not the one you need to be worried about," Barnes retorted. His voice was still thin and angry but it was a lot more normal than it had been during his and Tony's last conversation.

Sam just sat there silently, waiting, until Natasha and Clint had confirmed that they were fine, and that both of them had eyes on Hulk, who was still guarding outside the south side of the White House.

"Bruce hasn't slowed down," Clint then reported. "Might need your help Tony."

"Now?" Panic tightened the vice around Tony's ribs. He couldn't leave yet, not until he was sure Steve was alright.

"Not yet. Still waiting to see what he does."

"Copy that." As a wave of relief washed over him, Tony returned to examining the hack JARVIS was running.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony saw Sam pull the comm from his ear and pair it to his phone instead. He was expecting silence, akin to the waiting room, but Sam surprised him by asking, "How are you doing? And before you lie to me, Barnes told me what happened, so I'm not above calling in Rhodey if I need to."

_I'm fine_, Tony wanted to say. And he almost did. But the words were clearly a lie and he liked Sam too much to force them out.

It took him a minute to decide on a more acceptable, and honest, reply. "It was a lot," he finally said. "Doing that to him… It brought back some memories I thought I was over."

"You saved his life," Sam replied.

"That's what everyone keeps telling me."

There was a glint of something like understanding in Sam's eyes. "You're sure you don't want me to call Rhodey?"

Tony shook his head. "He's on assignment overseas. But thanks."

Sam nodded then pulled up a game on his phone.

Only a few minutes later, the comms via Sam's phone crackled to life.

"We need an assist with the big guy," Clint said before the line dissolved in crashes and an angry roar. "He refuses to calm down."

Panic surged again, but this time, Tony had had time to prepare for it. The last thing he wanted to do was leave before he'd seen Steve, but if it meant calming down Bruce before the Hulk decimated entire city blocks, he didn't have another option. Bruce responded well to him, so it should be quick; Tony was banking on being back in half an hour or less. Still, he ran through the techniques for grounding himself, then let out a slow exhale, feeling exhaustion seeping into his bones. "I'm on my way."

"You sure up for this?" Sam asked. He didn't look up from his phone, but the dots onscreen had stopped moving, proving he was awaiting Tony's response.

Tony nodded. "Let me know if there are any changes," he said as he walked out of the room and up to the roof where his suit was standing in sentry mode.

Pointedly ignoring the splashes of red crusted on his gauntlets, Tony let the suit assemble around him then took off to help his friend.

* * *

Bruce was not in the most agreeable mood and Tony ended up having to draw him toward the Mall to get him calm enough to transform back into Banner.

Having already tried and failed to do the same, Clint, Natasha, and Barnes headed for the hospital. By the time they arrived, Steve had been moved out of post-op and into his room. He was still ghastly pale and had a massive IV in one arm, but his leg had been thoroughly treated and was now wrapped in a thick layer of gauze and resting on a pillow.

"How is he?" Bucky demanded as he stormed into the room with Clint and Natasha hot on his heels.

"Still unconscious but stable," Sam said. None of the three listened to him and pushed past Sam to see Steve for themselves.

Bucky ran his eyes over the various monitors then pulled the glove off his flesh hand and laid it on Steve's chest. It was only then that the lines in his shoulders relaxed slightly. He muttered something under his breath in Russian, which earned a choked laugh from Natasha, then brushed Steve's hair out of his eyes. Somehow simultaneously, he also dropped into the chair closest to the head of Steve's bed without losing a stroke.

Natasha and Clint then did their own inspections of Steve before leaning against opposite walls of the room.

"So when do you think he'll be out of here?" Bucky asked, to no one in particular.

"All depends on him," Sam said, and if on cue, the whole room turned to look at Steve, who was still breathing steadily, if a little raggedly.

The room drifted into another lengthy silence, punctuated only by the soft beats of Steve's various monitoring equipment. It was only as Sam was drifting off slightly that both Natasha and Clint's phones chirped in unison.

"Fury's calling us in," Natasha said, after reading the message. When she looked up, her face was slightly troubled.

"All of us?" Barnes asked uneasily.

"No," she said, leaning over to drop a kiss on Steve's forehead. "Just Clint and me. Keep us updated."

"Always."

"You know you could catch—" Sam began after the two SHIELD agents had left.

"No." Then Bucky's expression softened slightly. "I'm staying right here until Steve wakes up."

* * *

"What do we have?" Natasha asked as she stepped back into the room where Steve had fought the shooter. She sidestepped two members of Damage Control, who were pouring gallons of StarkTech bleach on the puddle of Steve's blood. It was standard procedure any time Steve was injured to keep any traces of the serum out of unwanted hands.

Fury was standing by a large window that would have had a sniper rifle sticking through, had the window still been intact. As is, the rifle, which was glowing blue from its underbelly, was lying on the floor and was covered in shards of glass.

"Rogers doing okay?" Fury asked, turning to look at his agents.

"Sam says he'll make it. Tony finally get Banner calmed down?"

"Just. They should be on their way to the hospital now."

Natasha nodded, then repeated her original question.

"Modified sniper rifle," Fury said gesturing at the weapon in question. Clint and Natasha stepped next to the Director and were now able to see the glowing blue magazines welded seamlessly between the stock and the barrel.

"Looks the same as the Chitauri tech from four years ago," Natasha said. She then looked over at Clint and the two of them silently decided who was going to look where.

"And similar to the Raleigh bank heist." As he pulled on a pair of gloves, Clint knelt down beside the rifle and began examining it.

Despite knowing the crime scene techs had already printed the dead man, Natasha pulled out her New SHIELD-issue scanner and scanned his prints again, just to speed up the processing time. Then she crouched down beside the blood-soaked staff that had been used to stab Steve. It didn't seem to be alien at all, just a weapon designed to inflict serious damage as its corkscrew tip entered and exited flesh. Still, she took pictures, then motioned for the techs to take it back to SHIELD for further examination.

"Is finding out who is manufacturing these weapons back on the table?" Clint asked, looking up from the gun.

"It appears so," Fury replied. He was on the far end of the room discussing something with Damage Control.

"So, how someone getting this tech in the first place?"

"We already checked the logs in the Vault," Fury replied as he walked back toward Clint and Natasha. "No one has even been close to where these weapons are stored."

"You're assuming they're not being lifted before they get in the building," Natasha pointed out.

"Or that we ever had them in the first place," Clint chimed in.

Fury looked at the two of them expectantly. "Well, what are you doing standing around here?"

"Waiting to hear about the second scene," Clint replied, crossing his arms over his chest and matching Fury's gaze, "and if we're supposed to look it over."

"No need. It's two blocks south. Empty apartment just like this one. Video footage shows a heavily-disguised person dropping off a box around noon yesterday. No one has entered or exited since Wilson showed up." Fury looked at his two agents. "Your priority is finding out how we missed some Chitauri tech. This can be handled by Bravo team."

Nodding, Clint and Natasha rose to their feet. Clint then looked at Natasha, silently asking which job she'd prefer. Knowing Clint had a preference and not having one herself, Natasha shrugged and motioned for him to pick.

"I'll take the Vault," Clint said, to no one's surprise.

"I'll run down transfer records from Battle of New York Cleanup and see if anything got lost," she said for Fury's benefit. It was an equally tedious job, especially considering the records were most likely still scattered about in the wake of the Triskelion, but at least it was closer and could be done in silence. Clint's job was going to require face time with a lot of very smart and competent, but somewhat strange, individuals.

"And I'll run point on the Garcetti assassination," Fury finished. "I have a feeling all the Alphabet Agencies are going to be called into a meeting. I'll see if I can pick up anything there."

Clint and Natasha nodded, then left for their respective assignments.

* * *

The world was fuzzy when Steve came to. His head felt fuzzy, his mouth felt fuzzy and everything below his neck was fuzzy.

"You with us?" someone asked, fuzz-ily? If that was even a word. If not, it should be. It sounded just like it looked.

"Steve?"

He knew that voice. _That_ thought was sharp, not the least bit fuzzy.

"B'k?"

Was that him? Why did he sound so awful?

"Steve."

Bucky sounded relieved. Why? Where was he?

"You're in the hospital. Got stabbed by a Chitauri weapon—"

Chitauri? What year was it?

"It's 2015, Steve." Something warm was on his hand, but it felt good. "You saved the First Family."

The who?

Then many people were around him, talking. The words hurt his brain. They were pulling at his eyes, shining in a light. He flinched away, which whoever it was said was good.

His brain was hurting worse than before, so that was the opposite of good.

"…for some scans."

There was a hard push against the back of his brain, like someone had kicked him, and then Steve found himself mostly awake, eyes open, and panting for breath.

"Sc'ns," he slurred out.

"Yeah." A dark spiky blob leaned over his bed. Steve blinked hard and the blob sharped slightly into Tony. "They need to do a full work-up—"

"No!" The word flew out of his mouth before he consciously decided to say it.

The Tony-blob looked confused. "Steve, they have to."

"No… scans," he insisted, forcing himself into a sitting position. Something behind him was beeping loudly, driving shards of discomfort into his skull.

"Jesus." Hands were on him and pushing him back down into the bed. But he was stronger. "No scans!" he shouted. He wasn't sure why, but he _knew _it was the right thing to say.

"Steve." That was Bucky, who sounded incredibly worried.

"Can we hold off on the scans?" he heard Tony ask, and his body suddenly slackened into the bed.

"I suppose," a woman said uncertainly. "But we'll need them sooner—"

"No," Steve insisted, though he was losing the fight to stay conscious. He dug deeper, focused harder, and managed to regain the slightest grip on his consciousness.

Then, Tony was saying something to the woman that Steve couldn't pick up.

"No scans," Steve pleaded, turning to Bucky. "Pl'se?"

Bucky's brow furrowed. He didn't answer, so Steve repeated his plea.

"Okay, Steve," Bucky then said as he laid a warm hand on Steve's arm. "No scans."

Steve felt himself nod before he passed out again.

* * *

The second Steve had slipped back into unconsciousness, Bucky turned to Kathy, Steve's floor nurse. "That's weird, right?"

"It's actually not," Kathy said, as she checked Steve over again and made some minor adjustments of the equipment. "People do a lot of strange things under the influence of anesthetic. At the doses you're giving him, it's possible he had a reaction."

"Even if he'd never had one before?" Tony questioned.

Kathy shrugged. "I don't pretend to understand what's in that bag," she tilted her head at the souped-up painkiller Tony and Bruce had developed for Steve after finding out his body burned through normal analgesics before they had an effect, "but I know it's keeping him under and without pain." She consulted the many monitors around Steve then said, "he's also running a bit of a fever—even for him." The last bit was added rather unnecessarily; everyone in the room knew Steve's body temperature was just under 100 degrees on a normal day, so his current temp of 101.2 was high.

"It's possible he's just confused," Kathy continued. "He may not remember it when he wakes up again." Bucky and Tony must have looked pretty unconvinced since she felt the need to add, "I wouldn't worry about it for now. Especially until he's completely back with us."

Without a word, Bucky turned back to Steve, presumably for another visual baseline, which left Tony to finish the conversation.

"What about the scans?" he asked as Kathy moved to leave.

"We don't _have _to do them right this second," she said, turning back to face Tony. "Let's give Captain Rogers a chance to come around again and see if he reacts any differently."

Tony nodded, though it didn't do anything to belie the worry knotting his stomach. Despite what Kathy said, it wasn't characteristic for Steve to act like this, but then again, maybe she was right and Steve was having some sort of short-term reaction to his encounter with the alien staff.

Either way, they wouldn't know for sure until Steve woke up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Happy social distancing Monday! Enjoy an extra long chapter while we're all stuck at home!**

* * *

"Thankfully, no members of the First Family or the Presidential Staff were injured in today's gruesome attack. We've heard word from the Costa Gravan liaison that neither President Andrade, his family, nor any of his staff incurred any serious injuries either," a blond reporter, sitting behind a news desk at ZNN was saying.

The TV in Steve's hospital room had been droning mindlessly in the background, almost imperceptible over the _Trouble Man_ soundtrack Sam was playing. He'd played it for Steve after the Fall of the Triskelion, and now hoped it would have the same effect: to let Steve know he had people around him and that those people cared about him.

Now though, Sam's attention had been caught by the reporter's story so he turned to fully face the television.

"After today's event, the Costa Gravans have decided to return to their home country, and are hoping they will be invited back at a later date." The woman then turned to face her co-anchor of the late, late news segment. "Do we have any more information on what happened, Dave?"

"We have a lot of fragments that are just starting to come together," Dave said. To illustrate his point, footage from various interviews faded in and out of the screen behind him. "We have word that the first shot was fired at 2:31 PM this afternoon. Our very own Tony Stark cried out seconds before the shot crossed the lawn, which gave the Secret Service time to push President Garcetti out of the way…" Having lived through those events, Sam tuned out the recap of the attack until the scene returned to the news desk.

"I'm sure the Avengers would know more about what happened," Dave finished before putting down his notes and looking at the blond reporter, whose name Sam still didn't know.

"We're reaching out to their liaison but haven't heard back yet." Blondie smiled toothily at the camera. "They're probably out saving the world again. We'll keep you updated as more information comes to light."

So apparently the news stations were just as in the dark as the Avengers were about today's events. Not that any of them had had a lot of time to review, given Steve's injury. Fury would probably know more but was unlikely to share until that information became pertinent to the team. Which left Sam with only one other option: Tony.

Sam looked away from the TV to find the inventor passed out in the chair next to Steve.

Then again, it could wait a few hours.

As Sam settled back into his chair, he glanced over at Bucky, who was sitting between Tony and Steve, staring blankly at the wall. Given that Bucky had been here since Steve had been rolled out of post-op, Sam opened his mouth to suggest that Bucky take a break, but then closed it without saying anything. Sam would be less annoying if he only reminded the supersoldier to take care of himself a handful of times. Not only would his head still be on his shoulders, but it had the added bonus of being more likely that Bucky would listen to him.

Sam heard a shuffling noise behind him and whirled around to find Steve semi-awake and blinking owlishly.

"Hey man," Sam said softly, automatically reaching for the cup of ice water. He offered it to Steve who just stared at it in confusion. "Maybe later," Sam said as he put the cup back. "Are you back with us?" Steve had woken up a few times since refusing the scans with much less awareness and not for any length of time. That was normal after an injury like that, Sam knew, which left him nothing to do but wait Steve out.

Steve blinked again and this time, his eyes seemed to focus on Sam. He made a face of sorts then looked slowly left.

"Welcome back," Bucky said as he reached out and took Steve's hand in his. "How are you feeling?"

Steve muttered something incomprehensible in response. Sam leaned forward to catch it the second time around, but Bucky just shook his head and said, "He wants water."

Very much doubting that Bucky had made sense of Steve's garble, even with his superhearing, Sam grabbed the cup and held it to Steve's lips. To his surprise, Steve sucked down a few shaky sips before pulling his head away.

"How did you know?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"I speak Steve," Bucky replied, almost wistfully. Then he turned back to his friend and repeated the same monologue he had the other four times Steve had woken up: that he was in 2015, that he was safe in the hospital, that he'd saved the President—any mention of the First Family had been phased out after the first two times when Steve didn't seem to understand—and that he'd gotten a little bit banged up in the process.

By the time he was done, Steve was still conscious and pretty coherent, all things considered. He was quiet as Bucky filled him in on the details of the mission, even though Steve probably wasn't going to remember them next time. Tony woke up somewhere in the middle and began adding color commentary, for the benefit of everyone in the room. When they got to the part about him being stabbed, Steve's right hand slowly crawled down his leg to the swath of bandages.

"You should make a full recovery." Bucky said, tightening his grip slightly on Steve's other hand while remaining mindful of the IV.

"Best money can buy," Tony added cheerfully as he went to fetch a staff member.

The rest of the room only had to wait a few minutes before he walked back in with Kathy. She grinned widely upon finding Steve awake and began asking him questions while doing a quick exam. Steve stayed awake through it all, and able to answer some simple questions toward the end. Kathy then made a motion behind her back, which was the predetermined signal that she was going to ask about the scans. This was the first time since the original incident that Steve had been awake and relatively coherent. It would help them determine if the incident was just a fluke or a sign of a more serious problem.

"I need to take you for some scans soon," she said slowly. "Would that be alright?"

The room waited with baited breath but all that happened was Steve's brow furrowing slightly as he nodded.

"Good," Kathy said with a smile. "I'll see when they're free."

When she left the room, Tony stood and leaned slightly over Steve. "Do you remember her asking about the scans before?" he said, obviously trying to push his luck before Steve passed out again.

The furrow in Steve's forehead deepened. "No… Should I?"

"You were pretty adamant she not do them a few hours ago."

"I was?" Steve's heart rate began to pick up as his face screwed up in unease. His breath was coming in quicker now and he seemed a few beats away from full-blown panic.

"It was probably a reaction to something you were given," Tony was quick to say as his other hand moved for the analgesic dispenser. They could talk about the scans more when Steve was more settled. Right now though, they were approaching dangerous territory with Steve in an increasing agitated but not fully aware state; worse, he risked reopening his wound as his fidgeting intensified.

Just as Tony's thumb was about to hit the button that would distribute another dose of super-strength painkillers, he hesitated and looked back at Bucky, as if asking for permission. Bucky didn't look particularly thrilled about sedating his friend but, since he nodded his approval, he seemed to understand the impending risks.

"Get some sleep, Stevie," Bucky said as Tony quickly thumbed the button. "We'll talk about it more when you get up."

Steve looked over at Bucky, with nothing but trust in his eyes, and nodded. As the painkillers began to kick in, his movements began to slow until he was back to his blinking state.

"We'll be here when you get up," Bucky promised just before Steve's eyelids slipped closed.

They all waited until the monitors evened out, signaling Steve was fully asleep, before Tony asked, "Is that weird that he doesn't remember?"

"I'd say not, given everything he's been through today, but…" Sam trailed off with a shrug.

They all watched Steve for another moment, and when he continued to slumber peacefully, resumed their positions around Steve's bed. In all the excitement, Tony had somehow texted the latest update to the team chat, but they hadn't received a reply from Clint, Natasha, or Bruce. Sam wasn't worried—yet; if Natasha and Clint were really running down leads for Fury, they might not have seen the message, nor had time to respond. Hopefully Bruce wasn't responding because he was sleeping off the effects of transforming into the Hulk, and not because SHIELD had him on some super-secret assignment. Sam would only allow himself to be concerned if he hadn't heard from any of them in the next few hours.

* * *

Sometime later, Kathy took Steve for his scans. Despite the room being empty, Barnes had refused to leave, but had suggested Sam and Tony use this time to take a break.

"Only if you promise to do the same once Steve is back," Sam had said, while Tony just silently watched this exchange from the door to the hallway.

Barnes had scowled, but Sam had stood his ground and didn't move out of the room until he received a full, verbal promise that Barnes would take his own break once Steve was back and they had seen the results from the scans.

"Good," Sam had said, before walking into the hallway, leaving Tony hurrying to catch up.

By the time Sam and Tony returned with hot drinks and enough of the least suspicious cafeteria food for two normal humans and a supersoldier, Steve was back in his hospital bed, asleep, and Barnes was actually smiling.

"Results look good," Barnes said as he accepting a coffee from Sam. "No foreign particles in the wound; it's already starting to heal; and his heart didn't sustain any damage."

Tony had to keep himself from stopping and staring at Barnes, as he processed the sheer number of words that had been said and the happy expression that accompanied them. It was the most he'd heard Barnes say in one shot since he'd showed up to the Tower all those months ago, and one of the few times Tony'd actually seen Barnes' teeth in an arrangement that wasn't a feral scowl.

On a different day, Tony would have commented on it, but today, the results from the scans had put him in too good of a mood to ruin it by doing so. So instead, in typical Stark fashion, he covered his hesitation with a grandiose show.

"That's what I like to hear!" He clinked his coffee cup against Barnes'—who recoiled slightly in surprise—and Sam's—who tolerated it much better—before dropping back into his seat and opening his Styrofoam takeout container. His burger didn't look _good _persay, but it looked decent enough to not betray him later.

It was in his hands and on its way to his mouth when his cell phone rang.

"Who is it?" he asked JARVIS.

"Director Fury, sir."

"Put him on."

"We need you down at SHIELD," Fury said before Tony could fire off a quip.

"Why?"

"The staff Captain Rogers was stabbed with," a female voice said. It wasn't one Tony recognized and the brief scuffle that followed sounded like Fury had handed off the phone to have her explain. "It's not carbon based."

Both Sam and Barnes looked up from their meals in surprise.

In that same instant, Tony dropped his burger back into the container, closed the lid and tucked it under his arm.

"I'm on my way."

* * *

"You get anything?" Natasha asked.

Clint shook his head as he stepped out of the express elevator to The Vault. Just as he suspected, it would take a force of nature to break in there and leave with the Chitauri power cells or the sniper rifles. He'd asked for a copy of all the security footage from the past year to be sent to the Tower and planned on having JARVIS run it for any irregularities. He'd also reviewed all the entrances and exits for signs of foul play, such as the cameras being turned to strange angles or any known dead spots. Unfortunately, all were functioning normally and had full view of the rooms they were placed in.

Clint had then commandeered a probie to lead him to where the weapons (Chitauri or otherwise) were stored, and had both spot checked all the containers against the records in the computer and even opened a few boxes to ensure that the weapons were as expected. He gave the newbie his cell number, then left him to confirm that the rest of their inventory matched the digital intake logs.

Finally, Clint had talked to Jacob, the head of Vault security, who unfortunately had the personality of a door frame. He knew what he was doing though and had led Clint through even the most minor of disturbances over the past three months. Most were employees smoking in places they shouldn't, or using the break room for illicit activities, but none related to the theft of the Chitauri power cells or sniper rifles.

Contingent on what the newbie discovered, Clint was relatively certain the weapons' components had never made it to the Vault in the first place... which was good in the sense that it meant the Vault was secure, but equally bad since someone was assembling these tricked out weapons and SHIELD hadn't had a clue before now.

At least Clint hoped not. He'd dropped a line with a friend in intelligence to confirm for certain.

"No," he told Natasha over the phone as he swiped his badge to be let into the employee section of the parking garage. "You?"

"Not on the weapons, but Daly from Damage Control remembers seeing something like the staff on one of his clean-up jobs a long time ago. I ran a range of dates and no such weapon ever made it into custody."

"So he was wrong."

"Or someone at SHIELD is dirty."

Clint stopped walking and was quiet for a moment. "This is a big deal," he finally said.

"I know." And for the first time in recent memory, Natasha actually sounded uncomfortable.

"What do you want to do?"

"I need better footage of their clean-up to confirm his statement. We'll see what that turns up and go from there."

Clint nodded, not that she could see, and asked, "You gonna tell Fury?"

"Let's see what the video says first."

* * *

"It's unlike anything I've ever seen before," Dr. Jane Alhambra, explained to Fury, Tony and Bruce, who Tony had woken from a nap pod on his way to the medbay. The thankfully-clean staff was propped up on a holographic table, not dissimilar to how Loki's scepter had been displayed on the helicarrier three years ago.

"It's obviously alien," Tony said, on the lack of carbon alone. He leaned closer to examine the staff. "How does its signature compare with Loki's?"

He pulled back as two holograms, one of this staff and one of Loki's, rose out of the table and overlaid their results. The peaks and valleys didn't match in the slightest.

"So it's not Asgardian."

Alhambra shook her head. "We can't say that for sure. All we know is that it doesn't match the signature of Loki's scepter."

"What _do_ you know?" Fury asked.

"It's meant to be a very deadly weapon," Alhambra said. She pointed at the corkscrewed tip. "Designed to do a lot of damage going in and coming out." She looked up then hesitantly said, "It was lucky Captain Rogers was hit. I don't think an unenhanced would have survived."

"I'll make sure he knows that," Tony deadpanned, watching as Bruce circled the staff and fidgeted with his glasses.

"It's emitting more gamma rays, isn't it?" Bruce asked, though somehow he made it sound more like a statement.

Tony shouldn't have been as surprised as he was by Bruce's words. Of course the staff was emitting gamma rays, just like everything else that dropped out of the sky. Thankfully, and to no small delight of Tony's, Fury seemed to react the same way.

Alhambra, however, just nodded. "Low levels, not enough to cause any damage to Captain Rogers."

"You've checked?" Tony asked in surprise.

Alhambra nodded again. "Director Fury granted me access to his medical files."

"Only her," Fury chimed in before Tony could start in on him. "Her standard NDA covers everything she might read there. I need someone who understands this stuff."

"Well now you have the two of us," Tony snapped. "No need for outsiders." Pepper must have really been rubbing off on him, for he turned and quickly said, "Sorry."

Alhambra didn't look at all offended.

"Can we get back to the task at hand?" Fury asked, gesturing at the staff. "Is there anything we need to be looking for in Captain Rogers' records?"

"It looks like the staff is all here, turns and all," Alhambra said. "We're going to let FitzSimmons have a stab at it, if that's alright."

"Only if we get a look at it first," Tony said, but Fury shook his head.

"I have something else for the two of you," he said. He gestured for Alhambra to once again take the lead and she walked them across the room to where two modified and glowing automated sniper rifles sat. "These are the two weapons we recovered from the scene. As you can see, they're a hybrid of Chitauri and human technology."

"Someone has learned how to fuse the two together," Bruce said after a moment of examining the weapons up close. "It's extremely impressive." It was a sentiment Tony seconded after only a cursory look himself. The welds were small and straight, and had been done without damaging either the rifle or the power cell. Somehow the rifle now fired the alien energy, which meant there was a host of engineering feats inside it as well. As grave as the situation was, he was itching to break down the weapon to discover the design and execution.

Bruce looked up from the two rifles. "The list of people who could do that can't be that long."

"Get me names and I'll start running them down," Fury said.

Bruce shook his head. "I don't have any offhand. I suggest talking with the local craftsman community, specifically welders, with a focus on those who have a background in engineering, and getting JARVIS to start running the digital records."

"Did you hear that, J?" Tony asked, and his watch lit up in response. Then, he cut a glance back at Fury. "I want time with the staff."

"The engineering of these rifles needs to have your highest priority," Fury replied. "Now that they've been seen in two places, the agency is under a lot of pressure to identify the supplier."

"I thought the Secret Service was taking point on that?"

Fury smiled. "And yet the weapons are here, aren't they?"

If Tony had to guess, the alphabet agencies had put together some sort of task force, and the weapons were just sharing time here on their way to another headquarters, but it didn't change the fact that Steve had been stabbed with the now-alien staff, and it needed to be looked at by someone who had a personal interest in health and well-being of Steve Rogers, and not just someone who considered him the world's greatest science experiment. "I want the staff in my lab Friday in exchange for examining the weapons here this afternoon." He stepped away from the rifles and crossed his arms over his chest. "Final offer."

Fury's trademark scowl deepened before he nodded. "Only because I like you, Stark." He then motioned to Alhambra who began taking notes on her tablet.

"My lab, Friday morning, 6 AM," Tony said.

"It will be done."

* * *

Steve's body was betraying him. Within only a couple hours of fully regaining consciousness and about twenty-six hours after his injury, he was being sent to physical therapy. All he had done was a series of basic stretches before Keisuke, the therapist, had started him walking with a walker. Already sweat was pouring down his face and his leg ached fiercely; he felt like he'd run a marathon but in reality had walked only about four feet.

"You got it, Steve," Bucky said softly from over Steve's right shoulder, where he had been hovering ever since Steve had been wheeled out of his room and into physical therapy. Being forced upright and walking after an injury wasn't anything new for Steve, but today, for whatever reason, it was worse than he remembered.

Steve took another step and felt his right knee give slightly. He threw himself forward to catch himself on the walker's crossbars, just as Keisuke grabbed the gait belt around his waist and pulled him back to center.

"I think we're done for the day," Keisuke then said. He readjusted his grip on the gait belt, made Steve verbally confirm he was steady, then began leading him back to the treatment table. Given that Steve had only walked four feet, they got there rather quickly.

"Not bad for your first day, Captain Rogers," Keisuke commented as he helped Steve sit on the table, then lifted his legs up there as well.

"It feels like it," Steve grumbled, as he laid his head on the paper-wrapped pillow at the top of the table. Keisuke then began moving Steve's leg around, gently stretching the stiff muscles, and applying some heat to his thigh. When the hot pack had cooled down, Keisuke helped lower Steve into his wheelchair and rolled him back to his hospital room.

By the time they arrived, Sam, who had gone back to his place for some food and a shower, had returned, and a holder of three steaming coffees was sitting on the rolling table.

"How'd it go?" Sam asked as Keisuke helped Steve back into his bed.

"Very well for his first day," Keisuke repeated. He then looked pointedly at Steve, who felt compelled to nod his agreement, even though he couldn't disagree more. Even after the Triskelion, he'd been able to walk the requisite distance to be released in two days. Betrayed was really the only word that described how he felt after his body couldn't do the same with a much smaller injury.

It took a long minute for Keisuke to look away, and Steve was left feeling oddly like he'd given the wrong answer.

"How did it really go?" Sam asked as soon as Keisuke had left.

"He walked four feet," Bucky said, grabbing a coffee out of the holder and plopping down next to Sam. "Thinks he's failing."

Sam looked over at Steve and the feeling of disappointment that had blossomed in Steve's chest magnified ten-fold. "You were unconscious less than twenty-four hours ago. I think four feet is a great start."

Though Sam meant well, Steve was tired of talking about his injury and the subsequent inability of his body to perform one of its most basic tasks. "Sure," he said, throwing a smile onto his face. He suspected it was too fake to be considered real, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

Sam, bless his soul, seemed to catch on. "Wanna watch the game?" he asked, grabbing the remote from inside Steve's bed frame and turning on the TV. "I think the Dodgers are playing."

"In LA," Bucky grumbled.

It was clearly a ruse designed for Steve to jump in with how the Dodgers had abandoned them by moving across the US, but he couldn't find it within himself to rise to the challenge.

"That'd be great," was all he said.

If Bucky was disappointed by his lack of a reaction, he didn't show it as he turned to face the TV. "And they're down," he scoffed as he saw the score. "Typical."

As the game wore on, Steve felt himself relax slightly into the familiarity of the sport. Maybe he was being too hard on himself. Like Sam said, it'd been just over a day since his injury. He _had _almost bled out and if he really thought about it, his injury was no less severe, even though the physical damage was smaller. Maybe he needed to do what Sam, Bucky and even Keisuke were implying and cut himself some slack.

Maybe, he decided as he shifted in his bed and settled in to watch the rest of the game.

* * *

It was easy for Tony to fly back and forth between Manhattan and DC. With the upgrades to his suit, he could make the trip in nine minutes. Bruce however liked to keep his feet on the ground except when completely necessary, which meant they couldn't break down the weapons back at Tony's lab at the Tower.

Fury had given them a laboratory sand box to work in at SHIELD, and after calling Sam to see how Steve was doing—no change and yes, Kathy was now monitoring for any gamma-exposure-related issues—they'd donned proper safety gear (because the weapons were part-alien and Tony was not keen on having something burst from his stomach) and gone to work at the preliminary examination.

They'd locked the room down entirely and given JARVIS control, so they could dictate notes that would be copied to Tony's servers at the Tower but also so JARVIS could keep other well-intentioned but nosy SHIELD agents out. They'd had their chance to look at the rifles already and Fury was requiring that Tony and Bruce leave one intact for another unspecified agency to break down on their own.

It was the first chance Tony had really had to look at the weapon. Yesterday in the apartment building, he'd been too focused on Steve to really absorb any details, and a few hours ago with Fury and Alhambra, he could only give it a cursory look while he argued logistics. Now though, he was easily able to determine the model of sniper rifle that the alien cell had been welded to. It was one his company had looked at manufacturing many years ago, but hadn't found a way to do it cheaper and better than the existing model. Despite his faults back then, Tony had known it wasn't worth sinking any additional funds into and had shelved the project.

"Start running gun owner records," Tony instructed JARVIS as he circled the first weapon. "Let's see if we can trace this guy." He crouched slightly near the base where the serial number should be. No surprise, it had been totally filed off.

"You don't really think someone bought this legally," Bruce said.

"No, but maybe we'll get lucky."

There was silence as Tony and Bruce continued to examine the weapon. It had already been swabbed by SHIELD but he and Bruce took their own for an unbiased comparison. They documented anomalies and how they believed the two parts were fused together. Then they scanned it for any traces of DNA or other identifying information and set JARVIS to work.

It was only after Tony had gone over the whole thing once that he could definitively agree with Bruce. The craftsmanship on the weapon was very high-quality with the alien cell running seamlessly into the existing barrel.

From there, they'd taken pictures of one rifle from every angle, and set about disassembling it. They'd discovered the power cell was connected to the barrel by a small bit of non-carbon tubing with a stop-gap that opened when the trigger was pulled. Apparently, the energy was liquid-like, in the sense that it wasn't very viscous, and flowed through openings whenever an opportunity presented itself. That they'd tested in a black box, looking in from behind six inches of steel while the interior metal claw made a small puncture in the cell. Despite the thickness of the walls, the energy left a rather impressive scorch on the metal before the claw could seal up the power cell again.

"How many people do you think could do work like this?" Tony asked Bruce as he scrubbed at his itching face through the mask of the hazmat suit.

"I'd guess the list is pretty small," Bruce said, paraphrasing what he'd said earlier. "They'd have to have knowledge of how a gun actually fires, how the energy can be contained, and the knowhow to weld the two together." He pointed at the juncture between the barrel and power cell on the whole rifle, which was no more than a thin, even line, then the welds on the non-carbon tubing. "I'm no expert but that work looks excellent," he added, vocalizing what Tony had thought earlier upon seeing the rifle back in the lab. "Really, though, it could be anyone. Those aren't exactly deciding features."

Tony nodded, having felt somewhat of the same thing. The internet was filled with videos about gun safety and how the pieces actually interacted. At some level, he was sure it'd be full of welding videos too. The missing piece was the alien tech. JARVIS had found a few videos of scientists hypothesizing about how the weapons from the Battle of New York had worked, but they were all very high-level. To accomplish this level of detail, someone either had previous experience with alien technology, or had figured out with practice. Either one should have left a trail, somewhere and somehow.

But Tony also agreed with Bruce that that work was high-quality and would take someone with more than just a casual interest in either to complete. No one who took a one-day welding course or a weekend engineering seminar would be able to do this level of work. Higher qualifications in both areas came with a paper trail, which JARVIS was currently running down in both areas, with an emphasis on those who had the ability to do this physical work, but also had engineering or building experience.

"That will take some time, sir," JARVIS had said, once Tony had laid out the parameters.

"I know," Tony had replied. "But it's all we have for now."

"It's possible it's a two-person operation," Bruce said now, drawing Tony back to the present. "One to design and one who does."

Tony's watch lit up. "Shall I include that in my parameters?" JARVIS asked.

Not if they wanted an answer today yet. Tony looked over at Bruce, then slowly said, "Not this run. Focus on the welders. Engineers are just a bonus. You can always run the connections again later."

He turned to Bruce apologetically but the physicist waved him off. "I agree. It was just a thought."

"It might be the right thought yet." Just not the right time for it. "But if it's an operation," Tony said absently, while looking at the individual pieces of the rifle, "it's small. Their tech has only showed up in two places: Raleigh for the bank robbery, and now here. And for SHIELD to have not heard about it…"

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. "Unless it's growing."

Tony had seen the damage this weapon had done to the stage. It was lucky there hadn't been anyone at the Raleigh bank when it had been robbed, and that the weapon had only been used to break into the safe. They needed to find out who was manufacturing these weapons and shut them down before someone else upped the scale and focused on human targets.

Tony's stomach chose that moment to rumble, loudly. He frowned, knowing he'd eaten the slightly-rubbery burger from the hospital cafeteria before the meeting with Alhambra and Fury, which hadn't been that long… Tony looked down at his phone and realized that had been almost seven hours ago. Not only had they missed lunch, but they were on the cusp of missing dinner as well. Either Bruce had had a massive breakfast and legitimately wasn't hungry, or he'd been as caught up in the science as Tony had been and hadn't noticed either.

"Tell you what," Tony said, hauling himself to his feet and stretching out his stiff muscles. "Let's grab dinner for the team and go pay Steve a visit. JARVIS will tell us when he has something."

"It's dinner time already?" Bruce asked, looking up from the rifle barrel.

"Almost past." Tony then held out his hand, and after a second, Bruce grabbed it and let Tony pull him to his feet.

"I think we're pretty much done for the day anyway," Bruce said as he stretched out his back then headed for the door.

Tony nodded, and after instructing JARVIS to not let anyone in until Tony okayed it, the two of them headed out to check on Steve.

* * *

**Not a lot of action in this chapter, but it's setting the stage for the events to follow. But, on a positive note, Steve is awake, the Science Bros got the first of many scenes, and Clint and Natasha are hot on the trail of how the alien weapon came to be.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are love!**


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Tony woke up with an aching neck, back and left leg. He jerked upright and cursed as the rest of his body chimed to life with their own pins-and-needles sensations.

It took him a minute to realize he was curled up in a plastic chair in Steve's hospital room, after volunteering to take the early morning watch. He hadn't meant to fall asleep.

He forced himself upright and looked the sleeping supersoldier over. He was still breathing, slowly and steadily, and was starting to regain some of his color, which was all very good news.

"No changes."

Tony whirled around, his left hand held at the ready while his right went for the bracelet around his wrist. It was only as he was pulling it over his hand that he realized the person who had spoken was Barnes.

"What are you doing here?" Tony snapped as he dropped back into the chair and tried to will his heart rate back into a normal rhythm. The rest of the team had paid for a couple suites at the nearest hotel and were supposedly spending time there between Steve-watching shifts.

"I'm supposed to spell you," Barnes said, his expression not changing in the slightest.

"How long have you been there?"

"Three hours."

Tony's shift, which had started at 1 AM, was only supposed to be four hours, which meant… nothing. None of that information actually told him what time it was now. Barnes had probably come early to spell Tony, which threw off the assumption that Tony could simply add three hours to the end of his shift and get 8 AM.

Tony remembered Elaina, the night nurse, sticking her head in around 2:30 and not much after that, so it could be anywhere from 5:30 to 8. That also assumed that Barnes was telling the truth about only being here for three hours, and not since Tony had passed out at 2:30...

All that thinking so early in the morning, and without any caffeine to power it, was making his brain hurt. "Time, J?" Tony asked in surrender, too tired to pull his phone from his pocket.

"Seven thirty, sir."

He'd slept for almost five straight hours. "You should have woken me up," Tony said to Barnes while rubbing at the crusty bits at the corners of his eyes.

"Why? So you could go back to the lab? You needed sleep."

Tony looked up sharply at Bucky, who blinked, but otherwise didn't change expression. If Tony wasn't mistaken though, he looked less certain than he had a second ago.

"I did," Tony backtracked. "Thanks."

The uncertain expression didn't leave Barnes' face but he nodded.

"Anything happen while I was out?" Tony then asked.

Barnes shook his head and turned back to Steve.

They sat in the increasingly awkward silence for another moment before Tony couldn't stand it anymore. "I'm going to go get coffee. You want some?"

"That'd be great."

It was Tony's turn to nod as he pushed himself to his feet and strode out of the room. He made his way to the cafeteria on auto-pilot, bought two slightly sludge-ish coffees, then dropped into a chair in the corner of the cafeteria, back to the wall, to check his phone.

There were a few messages from JARVIS with the data he and Bruce had asked for the previous day. The list of people who had welding degrees was pages and pages long, and that was only those who had gotten a degree from a trade school. The list of employees at welding shops was even longer. Both however paled in comparison to the list of people with engineering degrees. His phone, souped up as it was, couldn't even load the entire document to get a page number.

The cross-reference between the two was hundreds, if not thousands, of people but was significantly shorter than both lists. Tony started scanning that list of names to see if any stood out while he sipped at his coffee. For some unknown reason, the whole list just felt wrong; the more time that passed, the more Tony tended to agree that Bruce's theory about there being at least two people in the operation was right. It was just an inkling at the back of his brain, with absolutely nothing to support it, but he'd come up with award winning inventions on far less.

He exited out of the list and returned to his messaging app, where he opened the last unread from Natasha. The text had no body but contained a link to a SHIELD database search about modified alien weapons. While it initially looked like there were a lot of cases that fit the profile, it only took Tony a few moments to realize someone had widened the filter for any cases that had the slightest similarity to the Raleigh robbery and the attempted assassination. Witnesses at the various scenes reported seeing anything from _Tron_-esque weapons, to sniper rifles with blue rope light wrapped around the barrel, to glowing brass knuckles that allowed a man to obliterate a cash register at a convenience store. There were maybe two or three cases that might have actually been alien hybrid weapons, but they wouldn't know for sure until all the cases were revisited.

There were some interesting similarities between the cases though: the earliest was July 2012, which tracked with the theory that weapons were made from Chitauri tech that had been stolen after the Battle of New York. Most of the cases were small-scale robberies or threats of suspicious persons, very little had any casualties or injuries, and none had any reliable witnesses.

Tony was just about to give Natasha a call to ask when SHIELD was going to revisit these cases when he got a message from Barnes: _he's awake_.

* * *

By the time Tony had made it back to Steve's room, Sam, Natasha and Clint were huddled around Steve's bed.

"Where did you all come from?" Tony grumbled as he pushed his way through so he could see Steve for himself.

"He remembers where he's at," Sam informed him as Steve turned his blue eyes on Tony and smiled a hello.

That was the lump sum of their interactions before Kathy, back for the day shift, pushed her way through all of them and began examining her patient. In complete contrast to yesterday, Steve smiled at her, answered all her questions cheerily, and passed all of her tests with flying colors.

"When can I leave?" he asked after she was done checking his heart, which was pumping soundly, and wound, which was healing nicely.

"We'll need another set of scans," she said gingerly, but Steve just kept staring up at her, patiently waiting for her to continue. "If everything comes back clean, and you're cleared by the PTs, maybe tomorrow morning."

Steve looked slightly disappointed but he nodded. "Thank you," he said, in a sad attempt to inject some of his earlier disposition back into his tone.

Kathy just smiled warmly at him. "I'm glad you're feeling better, Captain."

"That makes all of us," Sam said and received nods from the rest of the Avengers in response.

"Do you have any leads?" Steve asked as soon as Kathy had left the room.

Tony has suspected they'd end up here sooner or later, but he was hoping to have a little more time until that point. As soon as Steve heard that they had practically nothing, he'd be raring to get out of bed and help, instead of recovering from his near-death experience.

While Tony floundered to answer the question and downplay their total nothingness, it was Clint who spoke up. "We have it under control. You just worry about getting better."

Steve's glower was positively deadly. "Tell me."

"Only if you promise to not leave the bed," Tony said.

He was fixed with the full force of Steve's look but didn't back down. "Promise," he repeated, forcing himself to match Steve's glare.

Steve's glower turned into a scowl that looked like it was going to leave permanent lines in his forehead, but eventually he nodded.

"We don't have much," Tony then began. "Didn't get anything on the shooter's fingerprints, but JARVIS is running him through facial recognition and as much public footage as his servers can access. SHIELD has the modified weapons in their custody and are trying to run down the list of people who could join the two and not blow themselves up."

"So we have nothing about who is selling the alien tech?" Steve asked. Clearly he had put the pieces together that Raleigh and the attempted assassination were connected, not necessarily in motive, but by the choice of weapon. But he was assuming that the person who was selling the tech was different than the person who was manufacturing it.

Tony opened his mouth to vocalize that thought but was interrupted by Natasha. "We have a few leads. Which I should probably get back to."

"What?" Tony sputtered out.

Natasha looked over at Tony and shrugged. "To sell a weapon like that to someone like that takes connections. It's worth running down." Then she reached out and laid her hand on Steve's. "Like Clint said, we have this. Just work on getting out of here. You know how much I hate hospitals."

Steve flipped his hand around and loosely grabbed hers. "I'll do my best," he said, in a tone slightly strained.

Natasha smiled thinly then grabbed the remaining coffee from Tony's holder and left the room.

"We really have nothing?" Steve asked. "Have you tried—"

"Nope!" Sam exclaimed with a swoop of his hand. "Once you're out of the hospital, you can participate. Right now, you need rest."

Steve was clearly ready to argue, but then his jaw cracked open in a massive and lengthy yawn.

"Deny it all you want," Clint said. "The evidence is right there."

Steve's scowl deepened, which Tony honestly hadn't thought was possible, before he asked, "Then we'll discuss the options?" Somehow, it didn't really sound like a question.

"After you've had a nap, we'll consider it," Tony said. "Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it," Steve grumbled as he shifted onto his side and closed his eyes. As much as he obviously didn't want to, his breathing quickly levelled out.

"Anything we can do to help?" Sam asked once Steve was well and truly asleep.

"Not that I know of," Tony replied. "JARVIS, and apparently Natasha, are doing the heavy lifting for now." He then turned to Clint. "You guys think there's a fence involved too?"

It was Clint's turn to shrug. "It's unlikely someone with the talent you mentioned would also have the connections to get the weapons they're manufacturing to the people who want to buy them. Like Nat said, it's worth at least running down while you guys handle the actual manufacturer."

Tony pinched his nose to ward off the rapidly building headache, that hadn't at all subsided after consuming caffeine. "At this rate, we're going to need daily stand-ups to keep everyone on the same page."

Clint just grinned. "I'll pass, thanks." He was quiet for a moment then said, "You know, I could use some help running down leads later, if any of you want to get out."

Barnes just shook his head and turned his attention back to Steve.

"That's not really my game," Sam said. "Unless you're really desperate."

Clint shook his head then turned to Tony.

"You can't honestly think me going out there is going to help things," Tony said, knowing he was one of, if not _the _most_, _prominent figures of the Avengers. "Besides, I'll probably need to head back to SHIELD once Bruce is up."

"Fair enough," Clint said. "But your first point is wrong. To get a chance to break the case to someone like you might actually convince some people to come forward with what they know."

Tony supposed that was possible, but it seemed a lot more likely that whatever Clint had planned without him was going to work a lot better than any situation to which he tagged along.

"Maybe you should go, Bucky," Sam then suggested. "It'd be good for you to get out."

Barnes shook his head again, this time more firmly. "I need to be here."

"Come on," Clint pleaded. "We'll just go meet some people, see what they know. Tony will call you if there are any changes, right?"

His quick glance to Tony made it clear there was only one answer.

"Right," Tony said, even though that was originally what he was going to say the whole time. Clint wasn't wrong; it would be good to get Barnes out of here for a little bit, before he spontaneously combusted from the stress of looking out for a partially conscious Steve in a strange place with lots of strange people wandering around.

"Just go for an hour," Sam said. "You need to get out of here for a little bit."

"Don't you want to track down who is selling these weapons?" Clint asked, and if Tony hadn't been stoically agreeing, like this was their collective plan all along, he would have been secretly grinning at the clever way Clint was handling Barnes.

Barnes was quiet for a long moment. "One hour," he said to Clint. Then he turned to Tony. "You will text me."

It wasn't a question, but Tony held up three fingers in a Scout salute anyway.

"Okay then." Bucky very slowly rose to his feet, clearly stiff, all of which supported the idea that he did need to get out of Steve's hospital room and that uncomfortable chair for a while.

"Be back in an hour," Clint said cheerily as he grabbed his phone from the rolling table and led Barnes out the door.

* * *

"I look ridiculous," Bucky said ten minutes later. He was wearing his hair in what Clint had called a man bun, and for added effect, they'd tucked it under a ragged ball cap from the trunk of Clint's car. That turned out to not be the only spare article of clothing Clint had in there though. After digging through a truly impressive amount of junk, he'd managed to come up with a slightly stained jacket and gloves.

The look was very odd, both parts new him and 1940s him, and Bucky wasn't sure he liked it. But to find out who was selling these weapons, and who had hurt Steve, he'd find a way to manage.

"A few ground rules," Clint began, then immediately paused to straighten out Bucky's ball cap. "No maiming or otherwise injuring these folks. I've worked with them for years and they have a fair amount of my trust. They keep their ear to the ground and have helped us out a few times before."

He waited for Bucky to nod before continuing. "Rule number two, is don't speak until you're spoken to. I know you've worked hard on getting caught up to the future, but the lingo has changed. And rule three, if you don't know something, defer to me."

"So basically, you want me to stand there and look menacing."

"Marginally menacing," Clint clarified. "We don't want to scare them off."

"I'll try."

"Good." Clint then slid into the beat-up old jalopy and revved it to life. It spat out a cloud of dark smoke that made Bucky's eyes water and sent him hurrying for cover in the passenger's seat.

"Needs some work done," he deadpanned as he swiped at his eyes with gloves that came away smudged with exhaust.

"Talk to Fury. It's first on my list for my next day off."

* * *

Eleven radio-filled minutes later, they pulled up to a small, casual Italian restaurant located in a decent part of D.C.

"Who's our target?" Bucky asked as the jalopy lurched to a stop.

"Jesse Soli, the host."

Bucky tugged down the left sleeve of his jacket one more time, then climbed out of the car and followed Clint across the parking lot. Just outside the restaurant's entrance, Clint held out his hand, keeping Bucky from moving further forward. "What are the rules?"

"No maiming. Don't speak until spoken to. Only marginally menacing."

Clint nodded then led the way into the restaurant.

"Jesse!" he shouted as soon as he'd stepped through the door.

Jesse, a twenty-something man wearing a black vest over a white dress shirt and black slacks, looked up from stacking menus in surprise. He quickly maintained his composure and smiled thinly at Clint.

"Please, Mr. Barton. Our guests." Jesse motioned to the mostly empty restaurant behind him. Its four patrons hadn't so much as turned as Clint stepped through the door.

In the next few seconds, Bucky was scanning the room, identifying threats and exits. 'None' was the answer to first one, as the four patrons were easily in their eighties and were surrounded by a host of canes and life-giving equipment. 'Three' was the second one: one through the kitchen for deliveries, one for to-go orders to the right and the main door they'd just walked through.

"Your break is right about now, right?" Clint asked with a toothy smile.

As Jesse nodded, a dark-haired man dressed in a salmon shirt—clearly someone in charge—walked over. Bucky tensed, but the man just asked Jesse if everything was alright up here.

"They're in my econ class," Jesse lied so smoothly even Bucky was impressed. "Going back for their second career."

"We were trying to steal Jesse during his break to talk about the upcoming exam," Clint said, slinging his arm over Jesse's shoulder.

The manager looked Clint and Bucky up and down while Bucky did his best to match Clint's neutral, but slightly pleading, expression. "Be back in ten," the manager finally said.

"Yes, sir," Jesse replied, before hustling Clint, and by extension Bucky, out the door.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he snapped as soon as the door had closed behind them. "You know you can't come by my work."

"It's an emergency," Clint said, dropping into the seat in front of the restaurant and patting the spot next to him. "Come sit down before they see."

Unhappily, Jesse did and Clint quickly slung his hand over Jesse's shoulder, pulling him close. "I need some information," he said softly. "I'm looking for some people who are buying alien tech."

"I don't know anything about it." Jesse tried and failed to shrug out of Clint's grip. With a scowl, he gave in and allowed himself to be pulled closer into Clint's side.

"Try again."

Jesse looked over at Bucky for help and Bucky, remembering Clint's words, arranged his face into a marginally menacing expression. He wasn't quite sure what reaction Clint was going for, but he suspected it wasn't Jesse shifting as much as he could in Clint's hold and fixing Clint with a expression that was both murderous and mildly amused.

"You're strong-arming me now? Seriously?"

"He's a friend of a guy who got hurt by some alien tech. He's not gonna hurt you," Clint was quick to promise. "He just wants answers."

"I haven't heard anything," Jesse repeated, though this time it sounded more like a whine.

"You'll tell me if you do, right?" Clint asked before he released his hold on Jesse.

"Yeah."

Clint turned and tugged on the front of Jesse's vest, straightening it. "Atta boy. Now we'll leave you alone so you can have the rest of your break."

"Remember..." As Clint stood, he went through the motion of making his hand into a phone and holding it against the side of his head, then walked away.

From the way Clint was angled, he probably didn't see Jesse flipping him off. But Bucky did.

"Please," he then said to Jesse, trying to make his tone as non-menacing as possible. "He's my best friend."

Jesse was quiet for a long moment and Bucky was worried he'd overstepped. "I really don't know," Jesse finally replied. "But I'll call Barton if I do."

"Thank you." Bucky considered shaking Jesse's hand, but in the end decided he'd pushed his luck enough and just headed back to the car.

"What was that about not speaking unless you were spoken to?" Clint asked, the moment Bucky was in range. He was leaning against the hood of the jalopy, looking very intrigued by Bucky's response.

"You were too hard on him," Bucky responded as he slid into the passenger's seat. "He wasn't going to give you anything."

Clint climbed into the car as well and stuck the key in the ignition. "He gives me plenty, whether he wants to or not. SHIELD is paying for his comp sci degree so he can get out of the family business."

"Which is?"

"Acquisitions." Clint turned the key and the jalopy groaned to life. "I'm serious, Bucky. You can't do that again. We can't press them this early in the investigation, especially not without any evidence."

As a wave of disappointment washed over him, Bucky nodded and turned to look out the window. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry." Clint popped off the brake and the jalopy lurched forward. "I'm just telling you how these things work from the other side. All it takes is one little mistake, one small misstep on your part, and they stop talking to you."

At the upcoming red light, Clint stomped on the brake with barely a few feet to spare, causing Bucky to brace himself against the dashboard to avoid whiplash. He scowled over at Clint, but was surprised to find a wide grin facing back at him.

"You were probably alright with Jesse. He's young, he doesn't react like some of the others. But this next guy we could visit, if you wanted, he's very old-school. Definitely a speak-only-if-you're-spoken-to type of guy." Clint then repeated, "If you wanted," leaving it up to Bucky to determine their next move.

It _had_ only been thirty minutes out of his self-allotted hour and Bucky had to admit that it felt way more… useful out here with Clint, trying to track down the tech that had both almost killed Steve and President Garcetti. It felt like a piece of him was sliding back into place, regardless of the strange exterior surrounding it.

As long as he checked in with Sam about Steve's progress and followed Clint's few rules more strictly, he could do this a few more times.

"Where to next?"

* * *

Clint seemed to know a wide variety of people who seemed to be knowledgeable about very different things. To one Clint asked if there was any chatter about the Costa Gravan's ceremony. To another he asked for information about groups who were rallying against Garcetti. To a third he asked if they'd heard of anyone selling weapons, specifically alien hybrids.

It was a wide and shallow net, and they'd be lucky to hear back from any of the informants.

Four hours and many stops later, they'd said goodbye to a former arms dealer named Ricardo who was still on probation after his latest stint in prison, and headed back to the hospital. Bucky had messaged Sam between each stop and learned Steve had gone to PT again and had walked almost eleven feet, that Doctor Kentro was pleased with his healing, and that he could truly go home tomorrow morning if Keisuke signed off on his progress.

With that good news echoing in their ears, Clint and Bucky picked up takeout for themselves, Steve, and Sam on the way back to Washington General. Apparently, Tony had gone back to SHIELD with Bruce not long after Bucky had left and no one had heard from Natasha in a while. Bucky didn't have to look over at Clint to know that he'd be checking in with her as soon as they were done checking on Steve.

"You're due for a break," Clint announced as they walked into Steve's room, takeout and drink containers piled high between them.

"Someone has to stay with Steve while you two canvass the greater DC area," Sam retorted. The faux unhappy expression dropped off his face in an instant when Clint held out a pasta container.

While Clint and Sam exchanged updates, Bucky had made his way over to Steve, who was awake and staring blankly at the television hanging from the ceiling.

"How are you feeling?" Bucky asked as he put his brown paper bag on the rolling table and began unloading it. He saw the red sauce through the lid of the clear plastic clamshell and pushed that container toward Steve. "Simple Bolognese, no mushrooms, just like you like it."

"Thanks, Buck," Steve said, staring down at the food in front of him, "but I'm not really hungry."

"You need to eat." Bucky dropped a plastic fork onto the top of the clamshell and pushed the entire container closer to Steve.

"We can grab you something else from the cafeteria if that doesn't look good," Clint said around a mouthful of his ravioli.

"No, it's not the food," Steve replied. "I'm just not very hungry."

That wasn't right. Healing required increased calories.

"Are you sure?" Sam asked before Bucky could. When Steve nodded, he said, "well we'll hold onto it until you change your mind."

Steve smiled gratefully then looked up at Bucky. "I'm glad you got out a little bit. I was starting to worry about you."

Of course Steve did. As if he didn't have enough on his plate as is. "You don't have to worry about me at all," Bucky said, pulling out his own entrée and mixing the sauce in with the pasta. "I'm fine."

"Thanks to me," Clint interjected, which earned himself an elbow in the side from Sam in response.

The smile that lit across Steve's face grew to mammoth proportions. Seeing it there, for the first time since walking into the apartment building and finding Steve bleeding out on the floor, Bucky felt the fluttering of worry in his abdomen that had been steadily growing for the past two days diminish. Slightly.

The team then tucked into their meals, perhaps hoping the smell would rouse Steve's appetite a little. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Steve grabbed the fork off the top of the takeout container and popped the lid open. The room stopped eating for a moment and watched as Steve sniffed the air.

"You know what?" he then said, "maybe I could eat a little."

"That's what I like to hear," Sam cheered, holding up a forkful of pasta in an imaginary toast. Steve smiled uneasily, but did begin picking at his food.

By the time Sam, Clint and Bucky had cleaned their containers, Steve had barely eaten more than a few bites. Still, it was progress, and knowing that Steve was getting nutrients through his IV, Bucky wasn't as worried as he could have been. Over the last year, Steve had been so patient with him, weaning him off his drugs and onto solid foods; he could do the same for his friend right now.

As Steve drifted off to sleep again, Bucky held out the remnants of Steve's pasta to Sam and Clint. There wasn't a place to keep it in the room and he didn't want it to go bad. "It won't taste good warmed up," he said, shaking the container.

"You're the one who needs the extra calories," Clint pointed out. "You eat it."

As if previously rehearsed, his stomach chose that moment to growl. Mildly chagrined, Bucky just licked his own fork clean and dug in.

* * *

"Ready?" Bruce asked.

Tony dropped his safety goggles over his face and shot Bruce two thumbs up. They were down in the firing range at SHIELD, behind a thick layer of bulletproof glass, trying to quantify the limits of the newly reassembled sniper rifle hybrid. Those measurements weren't particularly useful for the assassination portion of this case, but if Tony and Bruce could figure out the rifle's strengths and weaknesses, it might help them figure out what the weapon was designed for, and down the line, could possibly help them find out who created it.

Bruce had just turned to the course and slid the protective case off the remote firing apparatus when JARVIS' voice rang over the speakers. It was loud enough to be heard through the ear protection both Avengers were sporting.

"Sir," he said. "I have a lead on the staff that impaled Captain Rogers."

Tony barely waited for Bruce to clear the range before he pulled off the ear protection and walked over to where his phone sat on the back bench. A holograph sprouted, revealing a series of SHIELD agents loading vans. Confirmed by the time stamp in the bottom right hand corner, this footage was from 2012, right after the Battle of New York.

There were a series of vans parked with their back doors open, in what was clearly an attempt to sort some of the alien debris before shipping it to SHIELD. Agents, and members of various cleanup crews, were walking to and from the vans, some leaving various alien objects and others tagging them digitally.

"What am I looking at, J?" Tony asked.

"This."

A man walked forward with the alien staff that had stabbed Steve, but instead of putting it in the van, he slid it beneath some more rubble off to the left. He then stuck its tag on what looked like a normal rock and placed it in the rightmost van before walking offscreen.

"JARVIS," Tony said, after exchanging a look with Bruce, "find me that man."


	5. Chapter 5

**It's a shorter chapter, but I hope you enjoy it all the same!**

**Thanks for your kind comments and notes. I love hearing from you all!**

* * *

The next morning, Steve was cleared by Dr. Kentro and was set to be released, pending sign-off from the physical therapists. Thankfully, Keisuke was working again today, and after showcasing improvement in his range of motion and balance, Steve walked the requisite twenty feet to be released. It took everything he had to stay upright and pretend that walking this short distance hadn't completely worn him out though, and while climbing back onto the treatment table, he'd had to cleverly conceal the way his legs threatened to buckle.

To a casual observer, Keisuke didn't appear to notice, but Steve knew from the extra care Keisuke took while going through his home exercise program that he had. Worry knotted in his chest the entire time Keisuke was describing the exercises, but in the end, the physical therapist signed the paperwork, under the condition that Steve complete his home exercises for the next three weeks, and return at that time to be reevaluated.

"What?" The question slipped from Steve's lips before he could catch it.

"I need to see you again, Captain," Keisuke said, looking up from the exercise he was demonstrating. "To make sure you're progressing."

Steve was again fixed with that expectant look and found himself nodding, even though every fiber of his body was screaming that a follow-up was wrong, unnecessary, and that no other SHIELD physical therapist had ever required that for any of his previous injuries.

"Sure," he found himself saying, despite his inner protests.

Keisuke just smiled and handed over the home exercise program.

Then came the waiting for Steve's discharge forms to be finalized; apparently even someone with the Avengers' notoriety was still subject to the same red tape as everyone else. Just before Steve was ready to disclaim to the security footage that he was leaving on his own accord against medical advice, Kathy arrived with the paperwork. She reviewed his care plan, with an emphasis on what Steve needed to limit until his check-up, then only a few minutes later, Steve was down in the employee garage, loading himself into a van Clint had procured from who knows where.

"Any stops?" Clint asked as he slid behind the driver's seat. Sam had taken shotgun without being asked, leaving Bucky to sit next to Steve in the back.

"Just my apartment," Steve muttered. He was unbelievably tired and still sweating up a storm, even though he'd only had to shift his body some three feet from the wheelchair to the car seat. He leaned his head against the glass and the cool soothed some of the pounding in his head.

If he had looked up, he would have seen the incredulous looks from his teammates. But he hadn't and was therefore oblivious to their shared shock.

"No way," Sam said a moment later, rousing Steve from semi-awareness. "You need a lot of looking after and we don't all fit in that little thing."

"'s not little," Steve retorted as he struggled to open his eyes in order to have this conversation face-to-face. But they were just _so_ heavy, and he was just _so_ tired.

"I already commandeered a quinjet," Clint said, in a tone that left no room for future argument—not that Steve had the strength for it at the moment. "We're going back to the Tower."

"Is that okay?" Bucky asked. He leaned forward so he could be seen through the one eyelid Steve had managed to lift slightly.

"Sure," replied Steve, too worn out for this conversation. It wasn't like he had a choice, given what everyone just said. Besides, he could always go back to his apartment at any time... though, maybe not until he'd had a nap.

Something unreadable flashed across Bucky's face before he sat back in his seat. Steve wanted to say something about it, but another wave of exhaustion washed over him, pulling his eyelids closed.

He only felt the van pull out of the parking garage before he was lost to sleep's siren call.

* * *

Tony sipped at the coffee in his hand and immediately grimaced as he realized it was cold, He stared at the mug in confusion, his sleep-addled brain unable to comprehend how it was cold, when he'd only poured himself a new cup a moment ago…

It was then that Tony realized light—genuine, natural sunlight—was filtering into the room he and Bruce were working out of.

"Wha' time izzit?" he asked JARVIS.

"Almost eleven, sir."

_Eleven_?

Tony shot upright.

"Any updates?" he asked as he scrubbed the vestiges of sleep from his eyes.

Despite his and JARVIS' best work, they didn't have a real good frame of the man loading the staff into the second van, and not even a license plate for JARVIS to trace. It had taken some time, but somewhere in the middle of the night, JARVIS had come up with a name: Roman Bass. He was a low-level employee with Manhattan Salvage, who had been contracted with a lot of other companies to clean up after the Battle of New York. That was before Tony had funded the SHIELD-run Damage Control, in order to minimize the number of individuals who came in contact with the alien tech.

Finding Bass had proved to be somewhat more difficult. He'd quit his job at Manhattan Salvage when it became apparent that the company was failing due to the lack of government contracts and had all but fallen off the map. He'd left the apartment he had been living at for a long while and had neither credit cards nor a phone with a GPS to track his current location. For all intents and purposes, he'd truly disappeared.

Tony had come too far in his life to let these small facts sway him from continuing to search for Bass; in today's age, even the most stringent and dedicated left a trail of some sort. He and Bruce—who Tony now realized was passed out next to him—had come up with some rather unconventional ways for JARVIS to track Bass, but then could do nothing but wait until JARVIS had had a chance to run the algorithms.

"Yes," JARVIS now said, drawing Tony from his thoughts.

"Yes, what?" In reviewing the events of the previous night—mostly to understand how so much time had passed without him noticing, Tony had forgotten what he'd asked his AI.

"Yes, I believe I have found something, sir."

Tony smacked Bruce's arm, jarring the physicist into alertness. "J's got something."

"I am not sure I have something," JARVIS corrected. "I only believe I have something."

Bruce slid his glasses off his nose and rubbed at the indent they'd left behind as he squinted up at the ceiling. "What is it?"

"I believe I have located Roman Bass." The screen on the far wall flitted to some traffic footage, showing a man roughly fitting Bass' description pulling into a parking garage three weeks after the Battle of New York.

"What happens next?" Tony asked, stepping closer to the wall.

"I do not know, sir. I could find no additional footage from the parking garage."

"When does he leave?" Bruce asked as he stepped beside Tony. The footage sped up and when the timestamp hit twenty minutes later, they saw the same nondescript van sans license plate leaving the garage.

"I don't suppose we can see the staff in any of the footage?" Tony asked hopefully.

"No, sir."

"And we have no clue at all about where he went?"

"Or whom he met."

Tony let out a slow breath while he reviewed JARVIS' findings. "It's a long shot but since this is the last time we see Bass on camera, we need to operate under the impression that this is where he gets rid of the staff. J, can you run everyone else who entered or left the garage and see if we get any hits?"

"I am on it, sir."

That's when something else clicked in Tony's brain. "Steve got released today, didn't he?" He raced back to the table and flipped over his phone to find four missed calls and six texts from various Avengers.

Tony didn't read any of them and immediately called Sam.

"How is he?" he asked as soon as he heard Sam pick up.

"Sleeping now." Sam went on to fill Tony in on the details of the release, including Steve's care plan. Unfortunately, Tony had too much on his mind to remember any of the specifics, but he knew he could rely on JARVIS to fill the gaps when he was more awake.

"We're almost back at SHIELD," Sam then said. "Gonna take a quinjet back to the Tower and get Steve settled in. You and Bruce want a lift?"

Tony looked over at Bruce who looked absolutely exhausted. They'd been stretched fairly thin last night—and over the past few days—while both trying to find Bass and finishing up their tests on the alien tech hybrids before the weapons moved to a different agency. With that done, they could continue to track down Bass from any workspace with an internet connection.

"Yeah, we'll be there," Tony said, to which Bruce looked extremely grateful.

Besides, they needed to be heading back to New York anyway. Assuming Fury was going to keep his word, the staff Steve had been stabbed with was scheduled to be delivered on Friday. Plus—and Tony realized this part with a sinking stomach—he needed to spend some time with Pepper. He'd seen her in person since before the attempted assassination, and it had been… over eighteen hours since he'd messaged or called her. He'd be lucky if he wasn't sleeping on the sofa tonight.

"See you when you get here," was all Sam said before ending the call.

* * *

On the other side of town, Natasha was still running down potential middlemen for the acquisition of the modified sniper rifles. Yesterday, over a scheduled check-in, she, Clint and Fury had decided that tracking down the power cells would be a lost cause. There were so many of them attached to various Chitauri weapons or ships after the Battle of New York that they could have been in any form before someone stripped them for parts. So while Clint, and apparently Bucky, were running down leads on who might want to assassinate President Garcetti, she was trying to figure out who could have connected the two parties.

So far, she hadn't come up with much. Jacob from the Vault had confirmed that neither the unmodified sniper rifles nor the modified ones had ever been in SHIELD custody, which tracked with the video JARVIS had found of Bass hiding the staff during the Battle cleanup. Now that she didn't have to worry about those with the required skills to break into SHIELD's base, Natasha set about checking in with her contacts. Unfortunately, none of them had anything useful for her, so she moved on to reviewing the SHIELD cases flagged in the search she'd sent Tony. Most of the files turned out to be red herrings, but there were one or two that described what sounded like actual pieces of alien weaponry. Unfortunately, for both, the trail was icy cold. She was going to need a lot more help running down those leads and had already talked Fury into assigning her some agents to do the leg work.

For now though, she could turn her attention back to Steve. She knew how he could be when he was injured and wanted to make sure she was there to support him. So she'd climbed into her car and made it back to the tarmac at SHIELD just moments before the quinjet containing the rest of the team was about to lift off for the Tower.

"Miss me?" she asked as she slid into her seat and strapped in.

"Always," someone deadpanned from the other side of the seating bank. And, if they'd been in arm's reach, she might have head-slapped them. As it was, she just grabbed a headset hanging overhead and slipped it on.

"How are you feelin', Steve?" she asked.

"Fine," he replied, in typical Steve-fashion. His voice was steady if not a little lethargic, which suggested he probably wasn't lying, but it was always good to get a second opinion from someone who didn't consider a gunshot wound to the abdomen a minor scratch. Usually, that would be Sam, who tended to be the voice of reason for most of the team, but for a situation like this, there was no one who would be more honest about Steve's condition than Bucky.

"He telling the truth, Barnes?"

"He'll be okay if he takes it easy for a few days," Bucky replied, around Steve's grumble of protest. "I will sit on you, if that's what it takes," he informed Steve, who went unhappily silent.

"Anything on your end?" Clint asked, which allowed Natasha and then Tony and Bruce to fill the team in on what they'd found out.

"So are we thinking Bass is the one selling the alien tech?" Clint asked when all three were done.

"He could be, but he doesn't seem to have the skills to modify them," Tony said. "I'm thinking he's washing his hands of the whole operation and just providing the parts." There was a quick set of movements from the other side of the seating bank before Tony continued, "JARVIS is running down his known associates. None of them seem to have the requisite skill sets either, but we'll know more when he's completely done."

"Our best bet is that parking garage," Natasha spoke up, "especially if that's the last time Bass was seen on camera. Sounds like he sold the staff, took the money and retired."

"That's what we were thinking too. JARVIS is running down everyone who entered and exited the parking garage to see if we can find a match." Then, Tony shifted audibly and said, "Steve's been awfully quiet."

There was a shuffle of motion, then Sam said, "He's asleep."

"Asleep? With all of us talking?"

"I muted his headset," Bucky said.

"He's going to kill you when he gets up," Tony stated, after a beat of appreciative silence.

"Probably." And yet, Bucky didn't sound the least bit apologetic.

With that, the conversation drifted into silence. Natasha checked her phone for any updates and found nothing. She leaned her head back in the seat and let the soft sounds of the quinjet wash over her. She hadn't slept at all last night, and here in the familiar quiet, she felt her eyelids begin to fall. Before she knew it, she was following Steve's example and was fast asleep.

* * *

The quinjet touched down at the Tower just under an hour later. Steve had slept the entire way, and as predicted, upon waking, was furious Bucky had muted his headset. Tony promised to fill him in again over lunch which seemed to mollify him temporarily, so with that, the team headed into the kitchen to begin assembling sandwiches.

In a matter of minutes, they were all sitting at the table and digging into their food. Steve's sandwich was a massive pile of meat and vegetables, which smelled and looked amazing. Yet somehow, he wasn't very hungry, despite having not eaten since breakfast at the hospital. He knew he needed the calories though, so he took a hearty bite and nearly recoiled as a grainy, sandy taste hit his tongue. Hoping he'd managed to hide the expression, he put the sandwich down and began sampling the individual parts. All of them were the same odd gritty texture and taste, even though he knew that's not what they normally tasted like.

Something bumped into his elbow and he looked over to see Bucky looking at him in concern. _You okay?_ his expression was silently asking.

"It doesn't taste right," Steve said. It had happened to him before, but long ago when he'd been sick, and never when recovering from an injury.

"We can make you something else," Clint said. "You need the calories."

"I'll try a shake." Steve rose to his feet and slid his sandwich closer to Bucky, in case he wanted it. "Sorry guys."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Sam was quick to say, and the sentiment was quickly echoed by the rest of the team.

In the kitchen, Steve pulled out all the ingredients for a protein shake and sampled them all. They were slightly less disgusting than the sandwich had been, but even so, they weren't very appetizing. Still, for the calories, he mixed a small amount of protein powder into the milk, just enough to turn it a brownish color, then took the drink back into the dining room.

"I hear the Dodgers are playing today," Clint said as Steve sat back down. "At the Yankees. It's only the second inning." The _Wanna watch?_ was left implied.

It apparently hadn't escaped any of the team's notice that Steve didn't have a lot of interest in the Dodgers since they'd moved across the country, but any game was far better than sitting in silence while everyone pretended to not be watching him. Their mothering was meant out of love and concern, but the intensity of it, especially from all of them combined, bordered on stifling. "Sure," he said, in response to the unasked question.

He was surprised when the entire team rose from the table, dropped their plates in the sink, cleaned up the sandwich fixings, then made their way into the living room and arranged themselves on the sofa.

"You don't all have to watch this," he said, taking a sip of his protein drink as the game flickered on the far wall. "We can watch something else."

"I like baseball," Tony said, though his head was buried in his phone.

"It's relaxing," Bruce chimed in, and as if to prove his point, his eyes started to drift closed.

Then Sam dropped into the seat next to Steve and knocked his elbow against Steve's. "Just watch it and be happy."

Left seemingly without another option, Steve did so.

* * *

That evening, Maria Hill stepped into the interrogation room at the Haverhill, New Hampshire sheriff's office. She ignored the man sitting on the far side of the table and slowly lowered herself into the seat across from him. Then, she pulled the file folder from under her arm and began to spread the files and pictures across the table until almost its entire surface was covered.

"Who are you?" the man demanded as she worked.

"I'm with SHIELD, Roman Bass," Maria said, finally looking up at and making eye contact with the man across from her. "And we have some questions for you."


	6. Chapter 6

**Another shorter chapter, but there wasn't a good place to split it otherwise.**

**Now that Steve is recovering, we get a glimpse into his mindset, and we also meet a character from another MCU movie who is going to play a key role in the rest of the fic.**

* * *

After the baseball game, the team had gone their separate ways: Steve had headed for his room to lie down, even though he'd slept through most of the game; Clint and Natasha went to check in with their respective contacts and presumably Fury; and Sam and Bucky, who were neither tired nor feeling like policing, headed down to the gym to work off some tension from the past few days.

Bruce, who was still looking rather worn, decided to follow Steve's example while Tony sat down at the desk in his office to try to get caught up on some SI business. At some point, he'd called Pepper, and after catching her up on today's events, they made plans to get together for dinner tomorrow since she was currently meeting with investors in LA. As soon as the call ended, Tony made a reservation at Pepper's favorite restaurant. He could say with complete honesty that he was looking forward to some time alone with her, free from worrying about Steve's injury, the attempted presidential assassination or the arms' deals happening without SHIELD's knowledge.

He spent the rest of the evening making a sizable dent in his to-do list before turning to the Iron Man suit, which thankfully JARVIS had had fully cleaned so Tony didn't have to see Steve's dried blood coating the gauntlets. He fiddled with some ideas, created the specs for a prototype watch/summoning bracelet hybrid that would be totally functional in both regards, then headed for bed himself.

The next morning, he was an hour or so into more SI paperwork when he received a video call from Maria Hill. Normally, he would have put her through to voicemail, but he was so bored by the legalese he'd been working through that he immediately accepted.

"What's up?"

She signaled for him to wait, then returned to typing on her phone. A few seconds later, Clint, Natasha and Sam joined the call. In contrast to Sam, who clearly looked like he'd been sleeping a few seconds prior, Clint and Natasha were wide awake and wearing in the same clothes they'd had on last night. Barnes connected not long after, sweaty and breathing hard, and it was only after his video shifted slightly that they could see the Tower's gym equipment in the background.

"No Bruce or Steve?"

"They're not answering." Maria tapped on her phone's keyboard for another moment before putting it down and looking up into the camera. "You can fill them in later. Last night, we found Roman Bass."

"How?" Tony asked in disbelief and was echoed by Clint and Sam.

Natasha was the only one with a different question. "Where?"

"Running down his friends, family, and patterns. Found him at a bar in New Hampshire."

"When are you going to talk to him?" Tony asked, though internally he was wondering how JARVIS hadn't found this. Maybe he was working on too much, and straining his admittedly massive processing power—

"We already did." Maria held up her hand to ward off the protest she must have seen building. "You can discuss the particulars with us later, but right now, I'm calling to let you know what we found."

She waited a beat, as if expecting more objections. When the line stayed quiet, she said, "He sold the staff to a Caucasian man wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. Said he was tall but under six feet. Probably late forties, early fifties. Hair was lighter, maybe blond or grey."

"Does he have a name?" Sam asked.

"Bass didn't know. Said he heard someone was looking for alien tech, called the number and met up at the garage. Got paid so much for it, he quit his job and moved to a shack up north. And before you ask, he's already sitting with a sketch artist."

"We can probably do one better," Tony said. "JARVIS?"

"I am already adjusting the parameters of my search, sir."

"I don't suppose the guy told Bass what he wanted to do with the staff?" Tony then asked Hill.

"No. Bass said they barely spoke."

"Sir, I have something." A hologram appeared out of Tony's desk and he flipped the camera around so the rest of the call could see. "That description matches one man leaving the parking garage in a blue Camry," JARVIS then said, and the hologram shifted to reveal parking garage footage of the Camry lining up to leave. The driver, a Caucasian man, was wearing sunglasses, but not a hat. His hairline was receding, thinning in the areas that still had hair, and the hair itself was either light blond or grey.

"Is that all we have?" Tony asked, feeling the match was a little weak. Sure the driver could match the description, but without the eye or hair color from Bass, it was a shot in the dark.

"Yes. None of the other male drivers match more than thirty-three percent of the parameters."

It was a weak lead but it was better than anything they'd had the past three days**.**

"Anything on the car?" Maria asked.

"The 2014 Toyota Camry, license plate STE-1204, was reported stolen two days before it was seen here," JARVIS said after a moment.

"A burner," Clint said.

"When did that car show up?" asked Natasha.

"Two hours before Roman Bass did. However, the exterior cameras did not record anyone with his description leaving the parking garage, and the car leaves a half hour after Bass."

"He's smart," Clint said. "Possible he's done something like this before."

"You can't get a better look at him?" Tony asked JARVIS.

"Unfortunately not, sir."

"Bass says he did," Maria reiterated. "Hopefully we can get a good sketch out of it."

"Any guess on when it will be done?"

"I'll send it over as soon as I have it." With that, Maria ended the call.

"Guess I don't have any more questions," Tony said to the dead air. But that was a lie. He had one large one. He leaned back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling.

"How did you miss that, J?"

"I am running quite a bit of data for you, sir. I am cross-referencing those with high-level engineering degrees, most likely mechanical, with those who have a background in welding or machinery. I was trying to locate Roman Bass either via either facial recognition footage or his friends or family. I am running registered gun owners to see if anyone purchased the same model sniper rifle as the ones that were modified. I was tracing the whereabouts and financials of those in the parking garage at the same time as Roman Bass, though I suspect I will not need to continue that line of logic—"

"That's not an answer," Tony interrupted.

"My best guess is I was incorrectly allocating space for the project based on priority. Do we have a change in priority?"

"What's highest in the queue?"

"The cross-references."

Tony thought for a moment. The sniper rifles themselves had moved on to another alphabet agency for examination. Between SHIELD and the other agencies, their tech, though it wasn't as fast as JARVIS, should have the ability to run a simple licensing search. Every intelligence agency in existence was running down leads on the attempted assassination, so JARVIS could probably be pulled off those too. What the other organizations wouldn't be able to draw the connections between two people as fast as JARVIS would.

"Keep on that. Ixnay the rifle owners. All others have a secondary priority."

JARVIS was silent for a moment then said, "I have adjusted the weights accordingly. Now, if I might add, Miss Potts will be arriving at the Tower shortly. I would suggest a shower and a shave before then."

Tony looked down at his reflection in the glass desk and had to admit JARVIS was right. His hair, which hadn't been washed since… sometime after Steve was out of surgery?… was sticking up in all directions, his normally immaculate goatee was shadowed by scruff, and his clothes were wrinkled and stained. It was not the impression he wanted to make for his first physical interaction with Pepper in days**.** "Unlike Hill, can I trust you to call me with any updates?"

"Always, sir."

With that promise ringing true, Tony called the elevator and headed for his floor to clean up.

* * *

That afternoon, Steve lay in his bed, very slowly coming back to awareness after another nap. His body felt like it weighed a ton, matched only by his eyelids which were threatening to close again without his permission. He fought hard, but managed to keep them open.

He'd done nothing but lie down since being released from the hospital yesterday. His body should be begging to move, even if it was just walking around his floor like he'd been forced to do for a whole three days after the Fall of the Triskelion, until his various injuries had healed enough for further distances.

Strangely, he felt nothing but the forceful pull of sleep, even though he'd done so little this morning to deserve it. For whatever reason, his body clearly needed the rest, but Steve would only allow it if he moved a little bit first; otherwise he knew his body would be hurting tomorrow, but in a different way than most would expect.

It took a bit of doing, but Steve managed to push his back off the bed and swing his legs over the side. His right thigh was stiffer than he had anticipated, and resisted even the slightest of movements until he'd massaged the areas around his wound and loosened the rock-hard muscles. It was just more proof that he needed to do at least a small amount of exercise before he crashed again.

It took about four times as long as it should have, but eventually, he managed to pull on a sweatshirt and track pants and make his way down to the gym. He stared longingly at the punching bag, but his thigh throbbed unhappily, causing him to turn his attention to the stationary bikes. Despite Bucky insisting he hadn't an ounce of self-preservation, he knew better than to attempt a treadmill in his current, half-awake state.

Thankfully, the seat was at the right height, so he carefully maneuvered his way onto the saddle and began pushing the pedals around. His thigh ached with the first few cycles but began slowly adjusting to the motion and protesting more quietly as time went on.

Once in the rhythm, Steve began swinging his arms slightly, feeling the tension ease in his neck and upper back. He stretched out his arms and had just moved onto turning his neck from side to side when he heard someone step into the gym.

He didn't have to turn around to know it was Bucky. His friend didn't say anything and just sat on the bike next to Steve's. Bucky fiddled with the settings for a moment then began to pedal, still having not said a word.

They rode a few minutes in silence before Bucky spoke up. "No bullshit, how are you doing?"

The lies, the _I'm fine_, were on the tip of Steve's tongue. It was practically a reflex how easily they slipped out over the past few days. But he couldn't with Bucky, not after everything they'd been through.

"I feel like I should be better," Steve said honestly. He stopped pushing on the pedals and allowed them to keep spinning his legs as their speed gradually slowed. "It's just a small injury, right? I know I lost some blood but with the transfusion, I'm well within normal levels. I feel like I shouldn't feel this…" he struggled to find the right word. _Bad _was far too strong; he was already improving over his condition a few days ago, and over all, he'd had worse injuries, from which he'd always bounced back._ Wrong _wasn't right either. There wasn't anything physically... well, wrong... with him anymore. Like he'd told Bucky, his blood volume was practically back to normal and his wound was little more than a thin pink line. "...tired," he finally settled on.

Bucky was quiet for a long moment as he allowed his bike to stop on its own. "You _were _stabbed by alien tech. Maybe you should have Banner take another look at you." He straightened up in his seat slightly, ready to go the moment Steve said the word.

"Maybe," was all Steve replied, though it wasn't like the injury itself was giving him problems. This fatigue, worse than he remembered from other injuries, could be some sort of reaction to whatever the staff was made of... which he realized after a minute, was probably what Bucky was referring to.

"You lost almost two liters of blood," Bucky said after a beat. "Maybe your body is just telling you it needs a break."

"There are a lot better ways for it to do that," Steve grumbled, which caused the corner of Bucky's mouth to quirk up slightly.

"Maybe it tried and you didn't listen."

Steve scowled over at Bucky but internally he was having problems refuting Bucky's statements. As much as he hated to admit it, maybe it was just a latent reaction to the staff that would go away with some more rest. He supposed it couldn't hurt to cut himself a bit of a break, at least until Tony or Bruce had had a chance to examine the staff. Alhambra, one of the SHIELD techs Steve interacted with regularly, had said that the staff was only emitting minor gamma radiation but that it didn't have any other properties that might be cause for concern. While Steve believed her, he was reserving judgment until Tony and Bruce had had their chance to study it. If they came up with something that worried them, Steve would submit to whatever test they needed, in order to figure out just how he was being affected.

A small part of his brain was hoping they'd find something, if for no other reason than to explain his strange behavior. If their examination came back clean, it meant it was just his body and brain that were inexplicably causing this lethargy.

Steve wasn't ready to jump down that path today. He shook his head to visibly derail that train of thought, then focused on Bucky, who had come down here on his own volition and initiated a conversation about Steve's state of mind. Though Steve knew Bucky always had his back, his friend usually avoided these sorts of conversations like the plague, especially when they were about himself and how he was recovering. The fact that Bucky was sitting here now and hadn't bailed after Steve's opening statement, really showed how far he'd come over the past year.

"Maybe," Steve said, and even to his ears, this one sounded more believable.

The bikes beeped in tandem, letting their riders know their session would end if they didn't start peddling again. Bucky just looked at the display. "I burned a whole twenty calories. Time to refuel."

Steve opened his mouth to protest but Bucky cut him off with a shake of his head. "Did that sound like a question?"

"No." Because the situation called for it, Steve was slightly more dramatic in dismounting the bike and beginning a trudge to the kitchen. When Bucky was in his eye line though, Steve smiled to let his friend know he was only kidding.

When they entered the kitchen, a pot of soup was already simmering over the stove. Bucky headed over to it and began ladling the pot's contents into two bowls.

"Not to be ungrateful here, but how?" Steve asked as a bowl was placed in front of him. Though Bucky had known his way around the kitchen in the past, Steve hadn't seen him spend any significant time in here or show any interest in cooking since he'd returned. Sure, Bucky was self-sufficient enough to make the basics—eggs, bacon, sandwiches, etc—but Steve could tell this had required a great deal more time and effort.

"It's my mom's recipe… I think," Bucky said uncertainly as he sat across from Steve. "You can tell me for sure." That was said even more quietly, so that Steve with his enhanced hearing barely caught it.

Steve lifted a spoonful of the soup to his nose and took a deep inhale. In the next instant, he was back in Winifred Barnes' kitchen. Rebecca and Grace were running around with the broom, expertly avoiding Mrs. Barnes, who was stirring a large pot over the stove. Bucky, currently fighting a cold, was curled up on the other side of the room and refusing to get closer to Steve.

"You're bein' dumb," Steve remembered himself saying.

"Not with your lousy immune system," Bucky had shot back, before dissolving into a sneezing fit.

"It's perfect," Steve told Bucky, back in the current day. He didn't even need to taste it to know for sure. And, to be honest, he almost didn't want to try it, just in case it tasted as grainy as the sandwich had yesterday and his eggs had this morning; Bucky was looking at him so expectantly though, that Steve was unable to resist.

The flavors of the simple broth exploded on his tongue and for the first time in days, Steve found himself hungry. He practically inhaled the bowl and by the time he was looking up again, Bucky had already refilled it from the pot on the stove.

"Thank you," Steve said, catching Bucky's hands as he handed off the bowl.

Bucky looked visibly uncomfortable at Steve's words but he nodded. "Anytime, Steve," was all he said as he sat down to eat his own bowl of soup.

* * *

Tony's phone refused to stop beeping. He'd heard it the first two times and was still choosing to ignore it. Whatever it was was not important enough to interrupt his first date with Pepper in a long while.

He refocused on his girlfriend, who was sitting across from the table from him and looked positively radiant while telling him about the chaos of the last upper management meeting.

Then Tony's phone began to vibrate, a feature which he had disabled for low-priority messages.

Dammit.

The conflict must have shown on his face for Pepper stopped in the middle of her story. "Answer it, Tony," she said, without hesitation.

"It'll just be a second, I promise." He pulled out his phone and quickly scanned the messages. The first batch, to the Avengers group chat plus Hill and Fury, contained a scan of a digital sketch, presumably of the man Bass had sold the staff too. The next few messages confirmed this much, and they were followed by a positive identification: Adrian Toomes, owner of Bestman Salvage, which had also gone under in the wake of the creation of Damage Control. Toomes' driver's license photo followed and it was almost a perfect match to the sketch.

"What is it?" Pepper asked.

"They found the guy Bass was selling the staff to," Tony said as his fingers flew over his phone. _Where is he?_

_Working on it_, Hill replied. _Now go back to your date._

_Yeah, _Clint added, followed by a thumbs-up emoji and a few less appropriate ones, which were quickly deleted.

_Staff will be at Tower at 10 tomorrow_, Fury said, then his icon went to gray, symbolizing he'd left the chat.

"Tony."

He looked up to realize Pepper had been calling his name.

"Do we need to go?"

"No." He glanced down at his phone, then back up at her. "One second," he said apologetically.

_6, Fury. And you all interrupted me_. _If it's high-priority, call me, otherwise you're getting ignored._

Without waiting for a reply, Tony turned on 'do not disturb' feature and shoved his phone back into his pocket. "Clint says they have it." He reached across the table and took Pepper's hand. "Now, where were we?"

* * *

**And here begins our slight **_**Spiderman**_**-verse crossover. Did anyone suspect Toomes was involved before reading this chapter?**

**Up next, we delve a little more into the case, see Natasha in action, and watch Sam and Bucky bond over their concern for Steve. (For those of you who aren't loving the case, or just want to see how Steve comes to try to assassinate President Garcetti, it's not too far away. We need to focus on the case while it's fresh and while Steve is settling in again. In a few chapters, the case will take a lower priority, since the team will have more important issues to deal with, and it will disappear almost entirely after chapter eleven.)**

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


	7. Chapter 7

By the time Tony and Pepper returned to the Tower, the situation with Toomes had escalated. Despite the late hour, Sam, Barnes, and Steve were all sitting in a conference room on the office level, watching footage of Toomes sitting in an interrogation room across from a blonde-haired woman who Tony had never met before. He only knew she was SHIELD from the badge clipped to her belt, though her name was far too small for him to read.

Still in the doorway, Tony turned to Pepper, his mouth quirked into a preemptive wince.

Pepper just leaned forward and kissed him. "Go," she said.

"I love you," he replied. He kissed her again then walked into the conference room and asked, "What do we know?"

Without looking away from the screen, Sam passed Tony a dossier. Tony sat at the head of the table and flipped the thin file folder open to find one sheet of paper, three-quarters of the way full of size 12 font.

"This is it?" he asked, quickly reading it over. Toomes was born in the Bay area, and moved to New York for college and never left. He had been married to Doris Toomes for sixteen years, and had one daughter, Liz, who attended a prestigious science academy in Manhattan. He'd started Bestman Salvage back in 2006, which had been contracted by the city for major cleanups until the creation of Damage Control. Bestman had declared bankruptcy in early 2013 and after that, Toomes had bounced between various blue-collar jobs to stay afloat. He was remarkably unimpressive in every aspect of his life, and hardly seemed like the type to get into arms' manufacturing. That being said, Tony had seen people do a lot worse for less in the past.

"That's all Carter sent over," Sam had replied when Tony was somewhere in the middle of the page. There was something about the way he said it that revealed a sort of trust that, if there had been more, she would have included it.

Tony looked up at the camera feed again. "Carter, Carter, Carter, Carter, Carter," he said as he tried to place her face. When he came up empty, he asked, "Is she new?"

"She normally liaises with the CIA," Steve said. He was looking a little better since the last time Tony had seen him; he had a little color in his cheeks and looked rather comfortable in a thick yet soft grey sweatshirt. "We've worked with her on a couple ops."

And there was that note again, that showed that Steve seemed to trust Carter as well.

Naturally, Tony was still suspicious of agents of any sort, but it was somewhat tempered by the two unspoken endorsements from his teammates. For now, at least.

"So, Toomes is a fence?" he asked, returning to the matter that was actually relevant.

"We don't know," Sam said.

It was only then that Tony realized it was silent in the room, other than his, Steve's and Sam's conversation. "Is it on mute?" he asked, gesturing to the feed.

"He lawyered up right after he was arrested," Steve reported before trying to muffle a yawn in his shoulder.

"And we can't Patriot Act it or something? He sold a weapon to a man that tried to kill the President."

"They don't have anything to hit him with yet," Sam said. "But Clint and Natasha are on their way to assist."

"I offered to interrogate him," Barnes said in his first venture into the conversation since Tony had arrived. Surprised, Tony looked over to see Barnes shrug somewhat unhappily. "They said no."

In hindsight, Tony should have been less thrown by Barnes' statement. He knew how close Steve and Barnes were, and how Barnes had acted in the past when Steve got hurt on a mission. Tony was fairly certain the fact that the President's life being in danger wasn't even on Barnes' radar, just the fact that Toomes had bought the staff that had ended up almost costing Steve his life.

"Maybe later," Tony said automatically, and saw Barnes' eyes widen in both surprise and a small undercurrent of hope. When Tony realized what he'd said, that he'd potentially agreed to unleash the vast and unconventional skill set of the Winter Soldier on a fence, he shook his head. "But then again, maybe not. It's out of my hands... Sorry."

Disappointment flashed across Barnes' face, which somehow made Tony feel worse than he already had, but then Barnes nodded. "Carter is good though," he said, pointing at the screen. "With some intel from Toomes' wife or daughter, she should be able to get something."

There was that ringing endorsement again. Carter must really be something special if the three Avengers, who weren't known for mincing words, were speaking so highly of her. Of the three though, there was something about Barnes' statement that pulled Tony in. For him to say the same as Steve and Sam, given their vastly different backgrounds, was intriguing.

He sat down to see what made Carter so special, but with Toomes' lawyering up and the lawyer not yet present, nothing happened onscreen but the numbers changing on the digital clock hung on the wall.

"Where's Bruce?" Tony asked as the hour rolled over and his wave of boredom threatened to do the same. He hadn't seen any updates from JARVIS about anything they'd put in motion, but wanted to check in with the physicist all the same.

"Sleeping presumably. We haven't seen him since dinner," Sam reported.

Tony tapped out a message for JARVIS to deliver to Bruce when he woke up, then turned his attention back to the screen, where absolutely nothing of substance happened for the next half an hour. Tony passed the time chatting with Steve, Sam and Barnes, and got caught up on Steve's recovery. It seemed like the supersoldier was well and truly healing, which was one thing Tony could now rest slightly easier about.

Yesterday, when they were all settled back at the Tower, Tony had apologized for what he'd done (the intense pain he'd inflicted in order to close the wound with his repulsor, and his inability to get Steve to the hospital afterward), but Steve had just smiled graciously and said, just like everyone else, that Tony's actions had saved his life. He'd then sobered and thanked Tony very seriously and repeatedly, until Tony started to—maybe—believe it himself. It hadn't made it any easier for Tony to watch the flashes of Steve bleeding out that he sometimes saw on the backs of his eyelids, but there was something about Steve absolving him of his guilt that made them marginally easier to carry.

Back in the present, the conversation started to die down, which sent Tony to his phone to compulsively check for any updates. No one from New SHIELD was answering any of his messages, not even Fury, who had promised him the staff by tomorrow.

Tony managed to sit in the conference room for another few minutes before his body started begging him to move and his eyelids started to get heavy. It was then he realized he'd only gotten a few hours of sleep last night—well, this morning—between SI paperwork and Hill giving them Roman Bass' identity. As much as Tony wanted to continue to work, it couldn't hurt him to get caught up on some sleep in the downtime, especially now that Pepper was home. There was something about sleeping next to her that served as a buffer for all but the worst of his nightmares.

Tony looked over at the rest of the team and saw Steve's head resting against the top of the chair, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to stay awake. Sam and Barnes were alternating between the interrogation room feed and their own phones, but neither of them looked like they'd slept much since Steve's injury. They could probably all use an entire night of rest, though Tony suspected he'd have a hard time convincing two of the other three in the room of that.

He tapped the table gently to draw Barnes' and Sam's attention without waking Steve, whose eyes had yet to reopen. He pointed at Steve, tapped out a message on his phone then turned it so Barnes and Sam could both read the screen.

_Gonna grab a few upstairs_, the message read. _You both should too._

To no one's surprise, Barnes and Sam just shook their heads.

Tony shrugged, then typed, _Wake me when something happens?_

Sam nodded then made a shooing motion toward the door.

_Thank you_, Tony mouthed on his way out. He took the elevator back up to his and Pepper's floor and found it totally, almost eerily, silent. It all made sense when he stepped into their bedroom and found Pepper asleep on top of the covers, phone plastered to her neck like she'd been trying to wait up for him.

As his heart swelled another few sizes, Tony carefully moved her phone to the nightstand and covered her with an extra blanket from the linen cabinet. Then he got ready for bed and quickly climbed in beside her.

He was asleep within minutes.

* * *

Just after Tony left, Bucky pulled out his phone, waved it to show Sam he wanted Sam to pick his up as well, and typed out a message.

_You should get some sleep too._

_I will when you will, _Sam texted back.

Bucky scowled. _I only need four hours a night._

_That's bull and you know it._

A soft snore from Steve had them both looking up from their phones. Steve's head was completely slack against the headrest and his mouth was tilted slightly open. He'd have one helluva headache when he woke up, but if he was this tired after napping most of the past few days, it wasn't worth waking him.

"Does he look a little warm to you?" Bucky asked softly, knowing Steve was well and truly asleep. As long as he and Sam talked quietly, they could probably have a verbal conversation.

Sam craned his neck to look at Steve's face, seeing, as Bucky did, that Steve's cheeks and forehead were slightly pinker than his surrounding skin. "Maybe. But he's also got that hoodie on and it's not that cold in here." It had to be at least 79 degrees in the conference room and was so comfortable that even Bucky was just wearing a decently thin long-sleeved shirt and no jacket. "Or he could be dehydrated. I haven't seen him drink much today."

"He ate three bowls of soup this afternoon."

Sam looked over at Bucky, trying to keep his surprise off his face. "How'd you manage that?"

"It was my mom's soup. I think."

Sam reached out and gently clapped Bucky's shoulder. "Way to go, man. For both remembering and getting Steve to do something he didn't want to do."

Bucky felt a smile pull at his lips, but it fell just as quickly when he looked back at Steve and saw again just how flushed his face was. "JARVIS, what's Steve's current temperature?" he asked as his heart jumped into his throat.

"100.9," the AI reported, thankfully also softly. That wasn't much higher than Steve's normal temperature, but after all that had happened, it was higher than Bucky was comfortable with.

"Cause for alarm?"

"My analysis indicates not. His temperature has fluctuated wildly over the past few days, but given the circumstances, I believe it to be within a normal range."

"Could it be because of the staff?" Sam asked. His question was meant to be helpful but all it did was fill Bucky with an entirely new set of worries.

"It is unlikely this long after their initial contact, especially since all his examinations have come back clean."

"What about after New York?"

"His temperature rose slightly but for other reasons. By the time he finally submitted himself for medical treatment, he was deficient in both calories and fluids, despite having eaten and drank at the shawarma restaurant. He was also borderline hyperthermic, due to the inability of his suit to wick away sweat and heat. All of his symptoms cleared after medical treatment, a change of clothes, and a rather large order of Ray's." JARVIS paused for a second then added, "If you continue to have concerns, I would recommend setting an appointment with Dr. Capps at SHIELD medical."

"I'm sure he'll love that," Sam muttered under his breath. He turned to Bucky. "What do you think?"

Bucky stared at the steady rise and fall of Steve's chest for a long moment. "If JARVIS says he's okay, I believe him." Bucky took a deep breath then said, "Please continue to monitor him, JARVIS, and let us know if we need to be alarmed."

"I will, Sergeant Barnes. Any additional instructions, Staff Sergeant Wilson?"

"Sam is fine," the pararescue said, and Bucky couldn't help but grin at Sam's look of exasperation. He'd been trying to get JARVIS to change his designation for as long as Bucky had been at the Tower, with no success. "But no, no additional instructions at this time."

"Acknowledged, Staff Sergeant Wilson."

Sam rolled his eyes as the AI fell silent, then turned his attention back to the screen where Toomes had shifted so he could put his feet up on the corner of the table.

"You can call it a night, you know," Bucky said to Sam.

Sam looked back over his shoulder and fixed Bucky with a toothy smile. "I said it before man, only if you do."

"Not gonna happen."

Sam could tell from Bucky's tone that future argument would be pointless, so he shifted strategies. If they were both going to be sitting there, they could at least be doing something until Toomes' lawyer showed up. "Wanna play cards?" Sam asked, knowing Bucky had been learning different games from Clint, Natasha and Steve. Sam's own family were card players themselves; you couldn't go to a Wilson family reunion without getting roped into at least one game of Up the River.

Bucky shrugged, clearly not interested in the idea, but Sam persisted.

"You can pick the game."

Bucky looked over at Sam and sighed heavily. "You're not going to give up, are you?"

Sam just shook his head and grinned.

"Fine." Bucky shifted so he was facing the table instead of the screen. "Spades is fine, if you think you'll win."

"Them's fightin' words, Barnes," Sam said as a set of holographic playing cards appeared in mid-air. They briefly appeared face up to show that all 52 cards were there before JARVIS flipped them, shuffled them, and dealt three hands. The third was for JARVIS, who to their surprise had a small gaming core, and was much more fun than playing with the imaginary, and impossible, Fred. The cards fanned out in a half-circle around Bucky's face so he didn't have to hold them but left a small gap to his left for a direct eyeline to Steve.

"Thank you," Bucky said to JARVIS and might have received a satisfied hum in response. Or it was the heater kicking on. Bucky chose to believe it was the former.

He checked on Steve once more, then turned back to his cards, which were absolutely atrocious, and began to count the measly amount of tricks he'd be able to take.

* * *

On the way to the underground New SHIELD base in Queens where Toomes was being held, Clint and Natasha both received texts from Fury containing nothing but an address. The address was the same for both of them so Natasha plugged it into her phone's GPS and verbally gave Clint the new directions.

It was only when they pulled up in a very nice neighborhood in New York City that they saw the many sets of flashing lights and vans parked outside one house, which Natasha had confirmed via a Google search belonged to the Toomes.

"I assume Fury thinks the rest of them are going to miss something," Clint said as he pulled in behind a nondescript van and put their car in park.

"Most likely." Natasha climbed out of the car then popped the trunk. After sifting through the various items of clothing, she found two jackets with SHIELD emblazoned on the back and handed one over to Clint.

"He'd be a real idiot if he stored everything on the property," Clint said as they shrugged on the gear and slid their badges onto their belts in plain view.

"Maybe we'll get lucky."

They had to flash their badges at least four times to get into the home, then once more to be let into the room where a NYPD officer named Robbins was questioning a middle-aged African-American woman, presumably Doris Toomes. Clint had worked with Robbins before on a few cases; as far as cops went, she wasn't the worst he'd ever seen.

The interview had apparently only just begun since Robbins was asking a series of introductory questions. Was her name Doris Toomes? Did she live here with Adrian Toomes, her husband? Was Liz Toomes her daughter? Was she a teacher at Midtown Elementary?

But then, the questions started getting interesting.

"Do you know what your husband does for a living?"

"He owns Toomes Salvage Company," Doris said. Then, in a second, her expression flashed to anger. "Is that what this is about?" she demanded as she rocked back in her seat. "His new salvage company? This is why you're in my house in the middle of a night, scaring my daughter—"

Around them, Clint could see the other officers reaching for their weapons. "You're making them nervous," he interrupted. "You need to calm down."

Robbins' head whipped around and she fixed Clint with a glare. Clint just held his ground, knowing he was right.

"I do ask that you calm down, Mrs. Toomes," Robbins said, as she turned back to Doris. "But not for the reason he said. We're just here to ask you some questions. We're sorry about scaring you and your daughter."

It took a long moment, but then Doris nodded and relaxed fractionally in her chair.

"I'm sorry," she said to the room. "You just don't know how hard he worked to get out of debt after buying those trucks after New York. When Bestman went bankrupt, we barely managed to keep the house. Liz had her heart set on attending MSST, but we weren't sure we'd be able to afford it. But then, Adrian found someone willing to front his business and, three years ago, they started Toomes Salvage. The first year was slow, but with all the superheroes and villains attacking these days, there's always work."

"Have you ever been to your husband's place of work?"

Doris shook her head. "No." Then she frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Robbins said.

Doris' expression shifted to the defensive again, but this time, she didn't change her posture at all. "What's this about?"

Robbins took a deep breath then said, "Mrs. Toomes, Toomes Salvage Company doesn't exist. It never has."

"That's ridiculous—"

"Ma'am, when this is all said and done, I can have an analyst walk through the details with you. But the short version is, your husband's company doesn't exist."

"That's impossible." Her face fractured and she said, very softly, "I'd like to see my husband now."

"I'm afraid we can't let that happen until all this is sorted out."

"I want to see my husband." Her frustration was growing and Clint felt the tension in the room eke up.

"Mrs. Toomes, your—"

"I want to see my husband! Where is my husband?" Despite her shouts, she didn't move from her chair, and didn't so much as move her hands.

"Just tell her," said a man on the other side of the room. "She's going to see it on the news anyway."

"Tell me what?"

Robbins let out a slow breath. "Mrs. Toomes, we have evidence that your husband sold a Chitauri weapon that was found at the scene of the attempted Garcetti assassination."

The color drained out of Doris' face in a second. "That's a mistake," she said calmly. "My husband, Adrian Toomes, owns a salvage company. He works all up and down the east coast. He is no terrorist." She then looked directly at Robbins and said, "I need to call a lawyer."

Robbins nodded. "That's in your right. But Officer Jansen will have to escort you around the house until we can get this figured out."

Doris nodded, though her lip was quivering, and very slowly stood up. "My phone is upstairs," she said, waiting again for Robbins to nod before she walked out of the room, trailed a few steps back by a sandy-haired officer.

Natasha quickly walked over to Robbins. "You don't really think she's involved?"

Robbins looked down at Natasha's badge then over at Clint, who nodded that Natasha should be trusted. Robbins then shook her head. "Most likely not. Her shock was genuine."

"I agree." Natasha handed over a business card then turned on her heel and left the room.

"What was that about?" Clint asked as he hurried to catch up. "You never talk to the LEOs."

"I just wanted to make sure we're on the same page. Helps when we're all swimming in the same direction."

Clint suspected there was more to it, but he didn't press. Instead, he changed the subject. "I pulled her jacket before we left. Nothing besides a handful of parking tickets over the last thirty years. Her degree is in teaching and I don't see anything that would qualify her to modify the weapons." He suspected Natasha had done the same search while he was driving, but on the off chance she hadn't, it would get both of them on the same page, which she seemed to care so much about tonight.

Natasha stopped in her tracks, leaving Clint to scuttle around her to avoid slamming into her. "You don't think he's just a fence. You think he's part of the operation."

"He could be." Clint shrugged. "But he's lying to his wife about having a real job and is disappearing up and down the coast. The house is expensive and his kid's school is not cheap. Plus, he sought out the tech. He's clearly not the assassin—"

"But he could be the mastermind."

"Or he just supplied him with the staff."

"And maybe the other weapons."

They'd now reached the front stoop and when Clint saw the number of news vans and camera flashes, he grabbed Natasha's arm and pulled her aside. "You know, it's getting kinda crowded here."

Natasha very purposefully removed his hand from her arm, finger by finger. "I see that," she said when she was done. "What's your point?"

"Whaddya say we start running down friends and business associates from Bestman? See what there is to see?"

"Way ahead of you," Natasha said, holding up her phone which was already ready to navigate to another address.

* * *

Tony was yanked from sleep by the ringing of his phone. Beside him, Pepper groaned unhappily, which forced Tony to scramble to answer his phone before she woke fully. He snatched it off the nightstand and stumbled into the closet, where he answered the call without looking at the number once the door was closed.

"'lo," he mumbled as he wiped the remnants of his rest from his eyes.

"We have something," Clint said.

Tony blinked hard, then pulled his phone away from his ear to see that it was 4 AM. He'd slept for almost six whole hours, and was betting Clint and Natasha hadn't done the same. "What?" he asked as he pulled on the first pair of pants he found.

"One of Toomes' old crew, Phineas Mason, worked for his family welding business until his father died in 2005. He didn't want to carry on the business and went to work for Toomes in 2006."

While Clint was talking, Tony had managed to pull on a T-shirt. "So Toomes isn't a fence," he said as he stuck his head through the collar. "He's buying up all sorts of alien tech and giving them to his friend to modify."

"That's what we think. Mason hasn't had a job since 2013, but he's still paying rent on a small place in the 'burbs."

"It's all circumstantial." Tony then muted his line and hurried out of the closet and into the hall.

"It's enough to bring him in. Hopefully between him and Toomes we can get something."

"I assume SHIELD is already running the rest of Toomes' crew?"

"Done. Same sort of story. All still living their lives without having a job of any sort."

"What can we do?" Tony asked as he punched the elevator call button.

"Get some more sleep."

"Excuse you?"

"You heard me. Carter's going to try to break Toomes while May goes at Mason. SHIELD's comps are still running their associates slash former employees to connect either of them to the assassins. JARVIS volunteered to run the other alternatives in case it turns out that Toomes really just is a fence and his friendship with Mason is a coincidence—hope that's okay. So, you should get more sleep while you still can."

"The staff," Natasha said in the background.

"Right. Fury wants us to remind you again that the staff will be at the Tower at eight for you to examine."

"Six," Tony objected, less because he thought it would matter, and more on principle at this point. The staff would get there whenever Fury wanted it to and not a second sooner. "That's fine," he then added, about JARVIS taking on new work. With what Clint and Natasha had just found, the other unfinished searches seemed rather irrelevant.

"So, Toomes was the last one to have the staff," Tony said as the elevator doors opened and he stepped inside. "He or whoever else is in this operation with him must have sold it either to the assassin or someone who hired the assassin." Tony scowled at the reflective doors of the elevator. "And I feel really weird calling him 'The Assassin'. Sounds like a bad Michael Bay film. We don't have anything else on him yet?"

"Nothing. Facial recognition was a negative and his fingerprints and dental records aren't in the system."

"Someone went through an awful lot of effort to make sure he didn't exist," Natasha added.

"There has to be _some _trail _some_where. No one is that good."

"We agree. But everyone else is doing everything they can, so like I said earlier, get some sleep. If not for you, then for us, since we're probably going to be up all night again. We can vicariously sleep-share through you."

Even if he wanted to, Tony was far too keyed up to sleep now. "Let me know if you find anything else," he said, feeling rather repetitive. Maybe he should just get that made into a recording to be played whenever he spoke to someone for the foreseeable future.

"Uh huh," Clint said before the call ended.

Tony then punched the button for the floor to his lab.

"Catch me up, J," he said as he dropped into the chair at his workstation.

"No news besides what Agent Barton had shared."

"In other categories?"

"As I have been reminding you for the two weeks, the Avengers are supposed to report to the Humane Society on Saturday for their monthly adoption event."

Crap. In all the craziness both before and after the attempted Garcetti assassination, Tony had forgotten all about the adoption event. He couldn't even remember if he'd mentioned it to the team lately.

"Let's check with everyone," he said, though he suspected he knew what the answer was going to be. Even though none of them had pets of their own, the collective Avengers were total suckers for rescue animals and had shown up for all of the previous events without the slightest nag. "Just in case, draft a letter to cancel, or find someone equally awesome to take our place."

"Yes, sir. And what will you be doing? I must agree with Agent Barton that you should get some more sleep."

Tony interlaced his fingers then turned them away from his body, hearing a multitude of cracks. "I can sleep when I'm dead, J. Right now, I'm going to find the connection between Toomes and our mystery assassin."

* * *

**In lieu of virtual hugs for anyone who commented, followed, or favorited the last chapter, I will hand out virtual bowls of Bucky's mom's soup, since you all seemed to love that segment so much. :)**

**Thanks for reading! Up next we have team breakfast, more discovery on the case, and Clint getting a rather unexpected call from one of his sources. See you Monday!**


	8. Chapter 8

The last thing Steve remembered was watching Sharon Carter stare down Adrian Toomes, but now, as he drifted into consciousness, he found himself staring at an off-white ceiling and warm brown walls. All working areas in the Tower were painted the same shade of stark white—a joke which didn't seem to get old to Tony—and in the seconds after waking, Steve couldn't place where he was.

He jolted into full awareness and propelled himself into a sitting position. That was when he saw the furniture, his sketchbook, and his shield propped up at the end of the bed, and realized he was on his floor. As his breathing returned to normal, he wracked his brain for how he'd gotten here and came up empty.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the small clock on his nightstand and had to blink twice before the numbers registered in his brain. It was eight AM, which meant he'd slept between eight and ten hours. His recent injury withstanding, Steve considered himself lucky if he got five hours of sleep a night; so for him to still be sleeping double that, almost a week after his injury, was odd. Usually, he started feeling like himself again after three or four days, and had returned to a semi-normal routine at the week mark. Today was five days post and he still felt… off. His body wasn't acting like it should, he was tired all the time, and his sense of taste (though slowly returning) was severely impacted. Bucky's mom's soup was the first thing he'd eaten since Sunday that hadn't tasted like cardboard or sand.

It was hard to ignore the feeling that he _should_ be much better by now, but in typical Steve fashion, he didn't spare it much more thought. A lot had probably happened with the case while he'd been sleeping, and he needed to find out what.

In hindsight, he could have just used his phone to contact the team, but for some reason, he wanted to go see for himself. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and had just barely put his full weight on his right leg when his thigh muscles screamed in protest and his knee buckled. He collapsed back onto the bed and scraped the heel of his right hand up and down his quad in an attempt to loosen up the muscles. Apparently he'd overdone it on the stationary bike yesterday, which turned what little remained of his good mood into a sour one.

The neoprene thigh sleeve was still sitting in its packaging on the side table and he glowered at it disdainfully; his leg would have to be hurting a lot worse for him to put it on. He compromised with a quick round of the stretches prescribed by Keisuke, after which he was able to walk to the en suite without issues, and run a comb through his hair and a brush over his teeth. He spared another second to scratch his fingers through the stubble lining his jaw, considered shaving, but then opted to deal with it another time.

When he arrived at the conference room ten minutes later, he found Sam fast asleep on the table, his cheek pressed against a pad of paper and a pen, and Bucky staring blankly at the security camera footage projected onto the wall. The footage looked remarkably the same as last night; the only thing that had changed was an assortment of files and photos spread across the table in front of Toomes, who was still quiet and looking rather smug. His expression was mirrored by Carter, who was typing away on her phone.

If Bucky hadn't looked over as Steve stepped into the room, Steve would have thought he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open, from how motionlessly he was sitting.

"You're up," Bucky said with a tired grin.

For the first time in a few days, Steve took a good look at Bucky, noticing the bags under his eyes that were more prominent than usual and the general look of exhaustion in his posture. This coming from Bucky, who would fight until his body literally collapsed, meant quite a bit. Guilt and disappointment clouded around Steve—that this was because Bucky had been looking after him, and that he should have known this was going to happen and done something about it sooner—and Steve couldn't help but agree. He should have seen this coming, especially since he always had in the past, regardless of the circumstances. Why was this time any different?

As that thought lanced through his brain, Steve couldn't fight back his feelings from earlier that this whole situation was different, _but it shouldn't have been._

"You okay?" Bucky asked, the tiredness in his expression gone in an instant as he stared over at Steve.

As soon as they had an opportunity, Steve was going to coerce Bucky into some serious R&R. It wouldn't make up for his previous lapse, but he could find another way to do that after this all was over.

"Fine," Steve said as he dropped into the seat next to his friend. "What'd I miss?" He was careful to keep his voice low to not wake Sam, who even in the throes of sleep, somehow looked as tired as Bucky. Both of them were still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, which made it was clear they hadn't left the conference room much during the night, if at all, after walking Steve to his room… at least, Steve assumed that'd how he'd ended up in his bed. He didn't remember walking up there on his own, but also didn't feel the need to ask for clarification.

Guilt swirled around Steve again, until he promised himself that he'd make sure Sam took a break at some point today as well.

Now though, he turned his attention back to Bucky, and listened as his friend filled him in on what Clint and Natasha had found, before he revealed how Toomes' high-priced lawyer had shown up around two. They'd counselled privately before Carter had questioned Toomes in the lawyer's presence; of course, Toomes had pleaded the fifth, despite the evidence and the charges Carter was laying out. "Toomes has one more hour before the lawyer is going to get a call and the camera is going to have an unscheduled hour-long glitch," Bucky finished with a half-grin.

"What about Mason?"

"He's being just as quiet but it's wearing on him. May thinks she'll be able to break him without resorting to force."

On the other side of the table, Sam jerked upright, mumbled something incomprehensible, and swiped at the red indents on his cheek. "Whazzit?" he tried again, this time slightly more coherent.

His gaze landed on Steve and he blinked hard. "You're back."

"I am."

Sam nodded, then shook his head cartoonishly to free himself from the last pulls of sleep. "What'd I miss?"

Without any change in expression, Bucky repeated all he'd just relayed to Steve. At the end, Sam nodded and asked, "Did you sleep at all?"

Steve had planned on being more subtle about that later, but Sam's direct approach worked just as well. They both turned expectantly to Bucky, who looked surprised for a second before his face resumed its normal neutral expression. That slip, no matter how small, only confirmed that Bucky needed some time not worrying about either Steve or the case.

Bucky shook his head, but seemed to sense that neither Steve nor Sam were going to believe him. He quickly changed the subject. "Tony texted the group a few hours ago. Wants to know if we're still going to the Humane Society event tomorrow."

Steve didn't need any of his enhanced senses to see the not-so-furtive glances both Sam and Bucky shot his way. He had to admit it didn't seem like the best time for such an event, but it was usually such a treat for both the Avengers and the shelter dogs. Every time they'd co-hosted an event like this, the entire shelter had been adopted within twenty-four hours; with the Avengers vetting the owners throughout the day, only a few were ever returned. It was likely the shelter had brought in extra animals, in anticipation of Saturday's foot traffic.

Then again, Steve hadn't seen Bruce since dinner, Tony since their brief interaction in the conference room, or Clint or Natasha since before they'd both been summoned to SHIELD. Given how little he'd seen of all of them in general over the past few days, they were all probably exhausted. Maybe they needed to sit this one out, if for no other reason than mental health.

If Steve's phone hadn't been in his room, he could have checked the group chat for himself. As is, he had to ask, "What'd everyone else say?"

Sam pulled out his phone and squinted blearily at it, while Bucky reported there had been no responses.

As deeply as Steve felt that sitting this one out was the right idea, the thought of all those animals, especially the ones that had been brought in, not getting adopted because they didn't show was tugging on his heartstrings. "Maybe some of us can go if we have a break," he said, though internally he suspected that wasn't likely to happen. He shook his head to clear the thought then added, "we'll see what everyone else thinks."

"That's probably why Tony sent it out already," Sam said, finally haven truly woken up.

"Where is Tony?" Steve asked. When he received twin shrugs, he repeated the question to JARVIS.

"Sir is in his workshop, trying to find a connection between Adrian Toomes and the man who tried to assassinate President Garcetti."

"Has he eaten?" The question was so automatic, it wasn't until the words had left his mouth that Steve realized that one, he was being hypocritical and two, that he himself wasn't hungry.

"Sir has not eaten since last night."

"What about both of you?" Steve asked, looking at Sam and Bucky in turn.

Sam shook his head. "And Bucky hasn't either, so don't let him lie to you."

Bucky responded by flipping Sam off.

"Let's make some food and take it down to the lab," Steve said. "I'm sure Bruce will end up there eventually too." Once they were all in the same room, Steve could get a better read on what Tony was thinking regarding the adoption event. Just in case the team opted not to go though, he began brainstorming groups he could get to replace them, so the event wouldn't be a total loss for the Humane Society.

Bucky looked back at the screen reluctantly, even though nothing had changed on it. "I'll stay here," he said. "You two go."

Sam was probably the only person besides Steve who could have reached across the table, grabbed Bucky's flesh arm, and tried to leverage him to his feet without their shoulder or wrist being separated. "You need to eat too, Bucky. Besides," Sam lowered his voice to a stage-whisper, that Tony could have probably heard from his lab a few floors away, "we might need you to do your Steve-whispering act again today."

Steve didn't rise to the bait and instead looked over at Bucky, who was resisting Sam's movement. He clearly wasn't going to move while the security camera feed was playing here. "Send feed to the kitchen please, JARVIS," Steve said.

"Yes, Captain."

As the projector flickered off, Bucky looked unhappily over at Steve.

"We're eating. Now," Steve said as he motioned for the door.

"He's definitely feeling better," Bucky grumbled, but he allowed Sam to pull him to his feet before he shook off the pararescue's grip.

In that brief moment, where Steve was back in charge and making sure his teammates were taking care of themselves, he felt the unease of the morning slip out of the forefront of his brain. He couldn't help but hope it would stay that way.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, the three of them were standing outside the door to the lab, each carrying two plates of steaming omelets. Bucky and Steve both had a shaker bottle full of a protein smoothie under an arm as well.

Music was blaring inside the lab, which was why Tony and Bruce hadn't noticed their arrival yet. On the other side of the glass wall, they were standing around the Chitauri staff, taking measurements and swabbing it for things Steve didn't pretend to understand.

"Let them know we're here, please, JARVIS."

The music died down as JARVIS relayed the message. Tony's gaze snapped up and he made a welcoming motion with his right hand as he clocked them through the glass. JARVIS responded by sliding open the lab's door, allowing Steve, Bucky and Sam to walk through side by side.

The minute Steve set foot in the lab, the wound on his thigh began to burn. Chalking the sensation up to psychosomatics of being in the same room as the thing that had stabbed him, Steve ignored it and made his way to the central table running the width of the lab.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" he asked as he laid down his two plates.

"Have _you_?" Tony retorted.

Steve pointed at one of the plates then lifted his elbow slightly to show off the shaker bottle.

Tony scowled. "Fair enough."

He and Bruce pulled off their gloves and walked over to the table where Sam was distributing forks.

Steve cut off a small portion of the omelet using the side of his fork and speared it. It didn't look all that appetizing, but he put it in his mouth anyway. It didn't have its normal bursts of flavor, but didn't taste as gritty as last night's dinner had. Maybe things really were improving.

"Are you missing one?" Tony asked, gesturing to the sixth, and only untouched, plate with his elbow.

"Just in case Pepper was around," Steve said as he swallowed down another bite of his omelet.

"Where is she, J?"

"Heading down to the lab as we speak, sir."

Tony made a face as he stared up at the ceiling. "I thought she had her thing this morning."

"At ten."

"Oh." Then Tony's face softened slightly with a smile, for a reason he didn't share with anyone at the table.

A few minutes later, Pepper typed in her code and stepped into the lab. Surprisingly, she headed for not Tony, but Steve. He barely had time to stand before she was wrapping her arms around him.

"It's good to see you on your feet."

"It's good to be back on them," he replied before pulling away.

Pepper took one last look at Steve then turned to Sam. "It's been quite a while, Sam," she said as she held out her arms to him. "How have you been?"

"Not as busy as you," he replied before embracing her.

As she pulled away from this hug, Tony rose from his seat and pushed his way over toward her. "And what about me?" he asked, leaning in to kiss her.

Pepper pressed her lips against his then turned to Bucky. "Good morning, Bucky," she said, without making any sort of motion to touch him.

"Good morning, Pepper," Bucky said. With his left hand, he picked up the last omelet and held it out to her. "Breakfast?"

"I'll take it on the run," she said as she accepted it.

She held out her free hand to Bruce, who stepped into her sideways hug somewhat uncertainly. His eyes closed as she tightened her grip, but she quickly released him. She did smile warmly at him before shoveling at least half the omelet into her mouth at once.

"Sorry to eat and run but I have a meeting at ten," she said between chewing and swallowing the first bite and going back in for the rest.

"I'll walk you to the elevator," Tony said. It was only once they were in the hallway, away from the glass walls of the lab, that he spun her around to face him and put his hands on her shoulders. "Sorry I bailed last night. Both times."

"I don't love it," Pepper said as she handed back the plate and wiped at the corner of her mouth, "but I understand it."

Tony had never loved her as much as he did in that moment, tiny bit of salsa on her cheek and all.

"When this is all over, what do you say we go up to your moms for the week?" he found himself saying as he wiped the salsa away with his thumb.

Pepper arched one eyebrow. "You hate my mom's."

"I'll manage somehow. Besides..." Tony slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. "The Tower's getting a little crowded. It will be nice to have a break."

Pepper stared at him for another moment before she broke into a smile. "Okay, then." She leaned in to kiss him again, but was interrupted by the chirping of her phone. "I have to go though or I'm going to be late. And you know how Barnaby gets."

"Forget Barnaby. You're the CEO! The meeting starts when you get there." Yet, knowing how important punctuality was to Pepper, Tony did start walking toward the elevator, his arm still around Pepper's waist.

"I wish." After Tony punched the call button, Pepper leaned forward and kissed him until the elevator doors slid open. "Go solve the world's problems."

"Be safe," Tony countered.

She nodded and returned to checking her phone as the doors slid closed.

* * *

Clint and Natasha, along with a bunch of field agents, had spent the night running down the rest of Toomes' and Mason's associates. Collectively, they'd managed to track down Herman Schultz and Jackson Brice, who were two more of Toomes' Bestman crew who had worked only a series of temp jobs since the Battle of New York.

They'd caught Brice trying to escape Manhattan with a modified force enhancer in his bag. After they'd detailed the charges that were going to be levelled against him, Brice'd started to spill secrets about Toomes and their operation. Based on Brice's testimony, SHIELD now knew for sure that Toomes' operation was buying and modifying the alien tech, based on the combined abilities of Toomes and Mason, and had been distributing them to a few parties over the past year and a half. Apparently it had taken Mason some time after The Battle of New York to figure out how to weld normal tech to the power cells without injuring himself or the weapon's future owner.

Schultz had chimed in with a few notable details of his own and between the two testimonies, they painted quite the picture of how Toomes' operation worked. What neither of them knew though, was who had bought the modified sniper rifles, but SHIELD was confident that, with this information, Carter and May could get the information they needed from Toomes or Mason, who seemed to be the leaders of this group.

"Get some rest," Fury had told Clint and Natasha after they'd made their report. "You have an Avengers event tomorrow."

"Sir?"

"The Humane Society adoption event," Fury had said, in a tone implying that Clint should have known that.

"We don't have time—"

"We will somehow manage to function without you both for three hours. Besides, the Avengers need all the good PR they can get. The public is just starting to forget that Captain America dropped a building full of people into the Potomac." He must have sensed there would be more protests from Clint and Natasha since Fury added, "It's not a suggestion, agents."

"Yes, sir," they said in unison.

"And make sure Tony Stark is there as well. The media loves seeing Iron Man with puppies."

"Yes, sir."

As they headed to where Clint's car was parked, Clint tossed the keys to Natasha and pulled out his phone for the first time in hours. He flicked through a bunch of unimportant messages before he got to Tony's in the Avengers group chat. As Natasha started the car and pulled out of the garage, Clint typed back: _Fury says it's mandatory. All hands on deck._

Then he noticed the missed call from an unsaved number, with no corresponding voicemail or text message. It took his sleep-deprived brain a moment to place the number. Jesse.

"I need to make a call," he said to Natasha before turning down the music.

Jesse picked up after only one ring. "Where have you been?" He sounded panicked and out of breath. "I have a lead."

"First things first, are you okay?" Clint stuck his left hand out by the steering wheel and began signing an address to Natasha, who quickly changed lanes.

"Yeah," Jesse panted. "I'm fine. Just had to run outside to answer your call."

"Jesse!" Someone shouted in the background.

"I gotta go. My dad's looking for me."

"Jesse, wa—"

"I get off at six. Meet me at the park down the street from the restaurant. And bring your scary friend."

As the line went dead, Clint pulled the phone away from his ear and scowled at the black screen.

"What was that?" Natasha asked.

"Jesse. He's got something to tell us. Well, not 'you and me' us. 'Me and Barnes' us."

If Natasha was disappointed by that qualification, she didn't show it. "When?"

"Tonight, at six."

Considering it was only ten in the morning, Clint was going to have to wait almost eight hours before finding out what Jesse needed to talk to him about. Clint considered heading over there now and feigning needing a jump to get his car started or something equally likely to get Jesse out of the restaurant, but he didn't want to put his CI in any additional danger. After all, he was only a kid.

"What's your play?" Natasha asked.

"We wait. Shower, change, get some sleep. Convince Bucky to come with me." He looked over at Natasha. "Should take about eight hours."

The corner of Natasha's mouth quirked upward but her eyes never left the road. She did though pass the exit they would have needed to have taken to get to the address Jesse had given them. "Are you sure you don't want me to come with?"

"You worried about me, Romanoff?"

"You specifically, no. Worried about the trouble you and Bucky will get into unsupervised, yes." She paused for a moment then added, "It could be a set-up."

"And I promise we will take all the necessary precautions."

Natasha nodded, even though she didn't look entirely convinced. As they rode the rest of the way back to the Tower in silence, her unease began wearing on Clint, who started to feel less and less confident about the meeting that evening.

* * *

Back at the Tower, the afternoon passed without incident. Tony ordered in Chinese for lunch, which everyone but Steve demolished. To be fair, Steve ate quite a bit more than he had yesterday, and reported that food was starting to have flavor again, which was a win in everyone's book. That combined with the fact that he'd also been spotted (very unhappily) doing his physical therapy exercises before eating, seemed to show that he was turning a corner in his recovery.

During the meal, Tony and Bruce shared what they'd learned about the staff. Clint wasn't dumb by any stretch of the imagination but still it surprised even him just how little he understood about their animated conversation.

To no one's surprise though, it was Bucky who spoke up when they were done. "What does that mean for Steve?"

"The staff doesn't seem to be different than any of the tech we've encountered so far," Bruce said, before pausing to take a sip of water. "Or any of the weapons that injured anyone during the Battle of New York, for that matter. They've all made complete recoveries with no lingering effects."

"See, I'm fine," Steve said pointedly to Bucky, who allowed his relief to show in his face as he dug back into his teriyaki chicken.

"Jesse called," Clint said once the staff conversation had lapsed. He looked up, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, to see Bucky staring expectantly at him. "Wants to meet us tonight."

Bucky's eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. "Us?"

"Guess you made quite the impression. You cool to leave at five?"

Still looking incredibly shocked, Bucky could only nod.

* * *

After lunch, Clint and Natasha crashed in their respective rooms for four hours of blissful rest. Clint then showered and swapped his SHIELD-issue gear for a worn T-shirt, jacket and jeans.

When his stomach began to rumble again, he headed downstairs to find Bucky sitting at a barstool in the kitchen, clearly ready to go. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail and he had already donned a set of thick gloves to hide his metal hand. Steve must have gotten him to rest at some point this afternoon, since Bucky was looking considerably less worn than he had this morning.

"It's only 4:30," Clint said as he opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of leftovers.

"Didn't want to be late," Bucky replied.

Clint upended the takeout container into two bowls, which he stuck in the microwave at the same time. When it beeped its finish, he slid one down the counter to Bucky.

"I don't—"

"If I'm hungry, you're hungry," Clint said before sliding a pair of chopsticks down the counter too.

Bucky just nodded his thanks, then dug into the meal. By the time the two of them were done, it was only 4:45, but Bucky was radiating such tension that Clint rolled his eyes, pulled his keys from his pocket, and motioned for them to head out.

"You gotta learn to be more relaxed," he said as he led the way to the parking garage.

Bucky shot him a sideways look. "That bad, huh?"

"You might be a little out of practice. But in your case I think that's a good thing."

Bucky didn't respond for a long time. Then he exhaled deeply and repeatedly, and by the time Clint had gotten his jalopy started, the set of Bucky's shoulders had softened somewhat.

"Much better."

* * *

It was only 5:30 when they arrived at the park, so Clint made a beeline for the neighboring coffee stand and purchased two lattes and a pair of scones. They were predictably terrible, but it gave the two of them an air of normalcy while they walked around the park, making small talk.

Closer to six, they sat on the bench closest to the restaurant, pulled out their phones to look busy, and waited.

At 6:05, the backdoor to the Soli family Italian restaurant opened and Jesse hurried out. He threw a full bag of trash into the dumpster behind the restaurant then headed toward Clint and Bucky. He didn't sit on the bench next to them, and instead leaned against a nearby tree and pulled out a vape pen.

"Those things will kill you," Clint said, not looking up from the dots game on his phone.

"So will my uncle if he sees me talking to you."

"So we'll make it quick. What's your lead?"

"I overheard my uncle talking to my dad about someone looking for some untraceable weapon for a job next weekend. He was pretty excited, so it must be for something big."

"Did you get a name?"

"No, but they called my uncle." Jesse opened his fist and a slip of paper drifted to the ground. "That's their numbers."

Clint looked down and quickly committed the two phone numbers to memory before the wind swept the paper away.

Jesse then flipped off his vape pen. "I gotta go before someone sees."

"Keep your ear to the ground," Clint said. "There's a master's degree in it for you if you get us a name."

Jesse nodded, then turned for a split second to face Bucky. "I hope your friend is okay."

Bucky nodded his thanks. "He will be."

Jesse smiled thinly, then took off down the street.

Clint remained seated until he'd lost the next level of his dots game, then stood up, Bucky not far behind him.

"Dinner?" he asked.

"Sure," Bucky said loudly, and obviously in character. It was only when they were back at Clint's car that he spoke up again. "That's not much of a lead."

"It's not yet. But phone numbers are a currency all their own in today's society. We should be able to get something from them, even if they're just used as leverage later on." Clint texted the numbers to the group chat that included both Tony and Fury, and explained what he needed. Hopefully, JARVIS or Fury would get started running the numbers and would have something soon.

Bucky sat back in his seat, his expression still displeased. "It was a lot easier on the other side of the law."

Slightly concerned, Clint looked over at Bucky who just rolled his eyes and flipped him off. "I'm not going to do anything stupid. I'm just stating a fact."

Clint hummed his acknowledgement then started the car. "Tell you what, if we don't have anything by the end of the weekend, we'll send Natasha in."

The grin Clint received was so bright and genuine that he couldn't help but stare... until a honking car pulled his attention back to the road.

With Fury's mandate that all the Avengers attend the Humane Society event, Clint probably wouldn't be privy to any leads that did develop over the next day. As much as that pained him to be left in the dark for that long, it allowed him the freedom to get some serious rest so he could be in top form for the Humane Society event tomorrow. After all the craziness of the past week, he'd be lying if he said some scheduled time loving on rescue dogs didn't sound like an excellent way to spend a Saturday.

* * *

**Up next, the plot kicks into high gear. I can't wait for you all to see it!**

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Since this fic is already an AU, _The Witcher_ came out in 2015. _The Man From Uncle_ was a box-office hit and its sequel is scheduled for summer 2017. Cavill is having a good year.**

* * *

Saturday morning, Steve woke up with knots in his intestines and skin that felt too tight for his skeleton. He stared at the ceiling in confusion, and when he couldn't make any sense of the situation, he rested the back of his hand against his head to check for a fever. He didn't feel warmer than usual; in fact, his skin felt a little clammy. He thought about Thursday night, when he'd heard snippets of Sam and Bucky discussing his health with JARVIS while he was dozing. They'd been expressing the same sort of concerns that had been thrumming at the back of Steve's mind for a few days now: about how his leg wasn't as healed as he thought it should be, or that he felt like a stranger in his own skin. Maybe he _was_ having some sort of reaction to the alien tech. It'd be the only thing that explained how he was feeling. But yet, it didn't, because after the Battle of New York, his burn had healed without any issue and he was back to normal within a few days.

Or maybe it was just because he'd almost died—sadly, his brain chose to add an _again_ here—and his body was trying to send him a message, much like how Tony always got sick after working for days on end without proper sleep or nutrition.

Maybe he needed a break.

Maybe the shelter today was exactly what he needed.

Ignoring how the knots in his stomach tightened at the thought, Steve pushed himself out of bed and did his stretching to mollify his stiff leg muscles. After taking a quick shower and again opting to leave his rapidly-growing scruff for another day, he headed into the common area.

To his surprise, he was the only one there. At this hour, Bruce was usually up watching the sunrise and drinking a new flavor of tea. Sometimes Tony was around as well, which mostly meant he hadn't gone to bed the night before, and there was usually someone whose sleep schedule hadn't adjusted yet watching some truly terrible reality TV in the common living room.

But today, it was just Steve, which left the large area feeling almost eerie in its silence. He knew though, that if he started making breakfast, he wouldn't be alone for long. Most of the Avengers, but specifically Clint and Natasha, tended to have some sixth sense for food and knew just when to appear; to their credit, they always stayed late to help clean up.

Steve stood alone in the empty room for a moment more then headed to the kitchen where he stared into the overly full fridge, hoping something would look appealing. Nothing did, so he sighed and pulled out a dozen eggs.

Not long after he'd cracked them in the pan, Bucky walked in, fresh from a workout.

"Hungry?" he asked, his expression just a touch hopeful.

Steve smiled and nodded; it wasn't so much of a lie as it was putting the idea into the universe. It was possible his taste buds weren't fully awake yet, and that maybe once the food was done, he'd actually _be_ hungry...

Bucky either didn't notice or didn't care to comment on Steve's duplicity, and only grinned as he began to pull ingredients for a smoothie out of the fridge and freezer. "You want one?"

At that very moment, Steve noticed two things: first, Bucky had pulled out all Steve's favorite flavors—Steve tended to drink more tropical smoothies with vanilla or strawberry protein powder, while Bucky tended toward heavier flavors like chocolate, mint, and peanut butter; Steve also usually put a lot of ice in his to dilute the drink while Bucky drank it stronger and closer to room temperature. Second was the odd sensation that washed over him, like someone had pressed pause on his life. For a split second, Steve couldn't form a thought, say a word, or move a limb. But then the moment passed and he found himself continuing his flip of the scrambled eggs without missing a beat.

That was when he realized Bucky was still looking at him.

"Not today," Steve said quickly. "But thanks."

The sensation had been so short and so odd, almost like getting up too fast and seeing static in your vision, that Steve was half-convinced he hadn't imagined it. He waited for it to happen again while he flipped the eggs onto a serving dish, but when it didn't, he cautiously chalked it up to a fluke and moved on to cooking the second batch of eggs.

Next to him, Bucky made a humming sound and continued to assemble ingredients for a fruit smoothie. Steve couldn't help notice how he'd made more than usual, obviously in case Steve changed his mind. In the event that he didn't, though, Steve knew he didn't have to worry about it going to waste. If he didn't drink it, Clint or Sam, both of whom had seemingly endless stomachs for mere mortals, would, without hesitation.

When the smoothie was done, Bucky stepped in beside Steve and started frying some bacon. They worked in companionable silence until enough food had been made to feed the entire team.

Thankfully, the universe was in a giving mood this morning. As soon as the scrambled eggs hit the serving plate, Steve found himself just the slightest bit hungry. He pilfered a slice of bacon from the batch Bucky had just taken off the stove and received the widest smile he'd seen in a long time in response.

"Tell everyone breakfast is ready, please," Steve said to JARVIS before he finished his slice of bacon, which thankfully tasted more like actual meat than sand, and reached for another.

"Breakfast?" Clint mumbled as he stumbled sleepily into the kitchen. He was trailed by Natasha, who was slightly more composed but still looked exhausted.

"And dogs later," Bucky said.

Clint grinned through closed eyes then crashed into the table and dropped gracelessly into a chair. Bucky dropped the serving plate of bacon in front of him and, without opening his eyes, Clint reached out and snagged a piece.

"So what time are we leaving?" Clint's chin was now in his hand and he was munching on a strip of bacon at the same time he was speaking, making it very difficult to understand him.

"Fury really mandated our little outing huh, huh?" Tony asked as he waltzed into the room and took his usual seat at the table. He must have also just gotten out of the shower for his hair was still slightly damp beneath its gel. The bags under his eyes were minimal, despite the fact that Steve knew Tony and Bruce had stayed up late finishing their tests on the staff. "Just proves he really has a heart somewhere under all that body armor."

"Let's not look a gift horse in the mouth," Bruce said, staring pointedly at Tony.

"I'm not." Tony reached out to steal a slice of bacon off the massive pile Clint was transferring to his own plate, but was intercepted by Steve and the serving dish of eggs he was carrying.

"There's plenty," Steve said, pointedly eyeing the empty plate in front of Tony.

"I know. It's my kitchen," Tony grumbled as he held out his plate and shook it until Clint scooped some bacon onto it. Then Tony looked around the table, as if an idea just occurred to him. "You must be feeling better."

If nagging people about eating and getting the team to mind their manners was a sign that Steve was in full health, he might need to look into some other hobbies and habits when everything settled down again. "I am," he decided to say, which surprised Tony more than a a snappy retort would have. "Thanks."

Now that everyone was seated, Natasha and Bruce, who were seated in the middle of the table, began dishing out heaping portions of the eggs, bacon and fruit, the last of which had walked into the room with Sam, who was surprisingly awake for such an early hour.

As a plate landed in front of Steve, his stomach actually growled, which caused everyone at the table to grin widely.

"Shaddup," he muttered as he started in on his plate. He was able to put away about half of it before he felt a bout of nausea rising. He tried to make himself keep eating at a slower rate, knowing he hadn't consumed the amount of calories his metabolism needed, but he stopped when he just about saw his last bite again.

He pushed the plate away and when the serving dishes were empty, Clint cleaned the rest of Steve's plate, after checking with him first, of course.

"So when are we leaving?" Clint asked as the team began to clean up their meal.

"The event is at two," Tony said. "Photos and such start at one."

"I would advise being down in the garage by noon," JARVIS intervened.

Tony grinned up at the ceiling. "You heard the man. Ready to go at noon!"

At JARVIS' words, Steve's stomach lurched and a chill ran down his spine, but he very pointedly ignored it. No matter what was going on with him, he was sure it could be cured, or at least tempered, by the love of shelter animals.

* * *

Despite repeating that mantra throughout the day, the knots in Steve's stomach kept clenching and the vice around his ribs kept tightening. He refused to give into whatever was going on with his body, and busied himself with catching up on the SHIELD briefings he'd missed while he was recovering. They weren't terribly exciting, so he was easily talked into a game of pool with Sam and an episode of a fast-paced but confusing and fairly violent fantasy show with Tony, who swore it was just like the game… and the book?

As if Steve's head wasn't hurting enough from trying to understand the plot of the show, around ten-thirty, it began to snow. Luckily, they hadn't had much snow this season up until that point, for which Steve was extremely grateful; he was getting better with the snow and the cold, mostly because modern heating systems were truly a thing of beauty, but for storms like this, he always preferred to stay inside during the worst of it.

"It should be over well before we leave," Tony said, his eyes not leaving the screen.

Steve made a non-committal sound and looked away from the floor-to-ceiling window on the left side of the room. His glance toward the elements had been brief, but the damage had been done. Dread rolled through his system, causing his already tense muscles to scream in agony. He could feel his breathing pick up as his lungs refused to expand.

It was then that he realized the TV show had stopped and Tony was staring at him in concern. "You okay, Steve?"

Steve nodded, though he was practically digging his teeth into his bottom lip to keep a wave of… well, he had no idea… back. "It's just not a good day," he was finally able to say. "I'll be fine."

"Maybe you shouldn't go at all…" Tony said slowly but Steve shook his head.

"I'll be fine," he repeated. "After a nap."

Tony didn't look convinced in the slightest but he nodded. "Let JARVIS, or the rest of us, know if you need anything."

Steve nodded himself before he all but dashed from the common area. He burst into his room and crawled under the covers, ignoring the nausea rolling through his system and the pounding in his head.

What seemed like seconds later, JARVIS was telling him it was almost noon. Steve groaned and rolled his head to check his nightstand clock for further confirmation. The small screen read 11:51, which left Steve nine minutes to get ready and down to the garage. His head still ached fiercely, but the nausea had somewhat subsided, so he pushed himself out of bed and into the bathroom to brush his teeth and straighten out his hair.

As he put his toothbrush back, he caught a glimpse of his reflection, and could understand why Tony had looked so concerned. Despite the fact Steve was easily sleeping twelve to sixteen hours a day, he looked exhausted. Today especially, his already light complexion was paler than normal and the thick bags under his eyes were starting to resemble bruises. He felt better though, which what was really important, and those cosmetic things could be fixed by makeup, which the PR team would be more than happy to apply before the photocall.

Choosing to concentrate on that small note of good, Steve splashed some cold water on his face, which woke him up the rest of the way; ran some product through his hair to get it out of his face; grabbed two thick jackets from the closet; and headed downstairs.

His plan to act normally went up in flames the moment he walked into the common room and saw the snow—albeit much lighter than before—drifting outside the massive window. His stomach clenched so tightly and painfully that he almost doubled over.

Suddenly, there was a warm hand on his shoulder and someone—Bucky—was asking, "Everything alright?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't think I can go today," he said, as his heart fell to somewhere around his knees. All those dogs, all the snuggles, all that love waiting to be licked onto his face, but he wasn't going to be any good to them if he went out like this. He'd be the story of the adoption event, instead of all the dogs and cats needing homes.

Thankfully, Bucky didn't press. "I'll stay home with ya," he said as he pulled out his phone.

Something inside Steve lurched and he found his hand clamped over the screen of Bucky's phone. "No," he said and he felt his brain rushing to come up with a reason. "You should go. Just because I can't doesn't mean you have to ruin your day."

Bucky looked at him warily and for an inexplicable reason, panic jolted through Steve's veins. "Really, Buck, I'm fine," he said while forcing a smile onto his face. "It's just the weather. I'm not feeling up for it."

Bucky didn't say anything, which was worse than him calling Steve out on his thinly veiled lie. "I really think I should stay," Bucky finally said, a long sixty-four seconds later.

"Please go," Steve said as his heart rate began to race and a sledgehammer began to pound inside his skull. It took everything he had to keep his expression and voice neutral. "You need the time out as much as any of us."

It took another achingly long moment but Bucky eventually and unhappily nodded. "You call me if anything isn't right." It was a statement, not a question.

Steve smiled thinly. "Always." Then he made a shooing motion with his hand. "Now go, otherwise you're going to be late."

When Bucky was out of sight, Steve pulled out his phone with fingers that were becoming less shaky by the second.

_Not feeling well, you guys ARE still going, _he texted. _No arguments._

Then he added, _Captain's Orders_, for good measure.

They all responded with some derivation of what Bucky had said: _Are you sure? I can stay._

Steve just kept responding with the pointing up emoji until JARVIS informed him that Bucky had convinced the rest of the team to head out. Also, that Bucky had already made plans to return to the Tower just after the event was kicked off. It was as good a compromise as Steve could have hoped for, and allowed him a brief window to get his act together while he was alone in the Tower.

First things first. Steve hurried back to his room where he shucked off his warm clothes and crawled back into his bed, under his dual comforters and heated blanket, and watched, safe and warm, as the snow drifted outside his window.

* * *

"He seem off to anyone else?" Tony asked as soon as the team had piled into the SUV that would take them off to the Humane Society. Happy had volunteered to drive so they wouldn't have to worry about the snow or finding parking once they'd arrived. Naturally, Natasha had scoffed at the idea that she was incapable of driving in snow, citing that this was nothing compared to the storms of her homeland, but when Happy insisted it was this or they'd be late, she had allowed herself to be tugged into the middle row of the Buick next to Clint.

Surprisingly, it was also Happy who was the first to reply to Tony with a resounding, "Yes."

"You're all assuming him choosing to stay home is a bad thing," Sam countered. "If he's recognizing he's not feeling up to it because of the weather, his choice to not put himself in that situation is actually a big step for him."

"You're assuming it's about the weather." Even as he said it though, Tony couldn't help but remember that the look of sheer panic on Steve's face that morning had only happened once he'd seen the snow outside and not beforehand. Never one for conceding the point though, he barreled forward. "It's been almost a week and he's still always sleeping and hardly eating. He was on his feet three days after Ba—after the helicarrier incident—and he was hurt a lot worse then." He turned from the passenger's seat to look back at all of them. "Tell me you aren't all worried."

"Natasha's always worried about the rest of us," Clint said, before receiving a pointy elbow to the ribs and a sharp phrase in Russian in reply.

"He isn't acting like himself," Barnes said softly. Without being asked, he'd climbed into the far back seat, which put the greatest distance between him and Tony. "But maybe Sam's right."

"Maybe?" Sam repeated, quirking an eyebrow.

While Barnes responded with a rather rude gesture, Tony flipped back into his seat, not feeling the least bit reassured. "It doesn't seem right to leave him."

"He wants us to go," replied Barnes. "He made that very clear."

Undeterred, Tony pulled out his phone and tapped into JARVIS' security console. "What is Steve doing?"

"He returned to his bedroom almost immediately after texting the group, and has yet to leave," JARVIS reported.

"But what's he _doing_? Without violating the privacy codes of course."

"Without accessing my cameras, I can only hypothesize."

"You're no help," Tony said sourly before minimizing the console.

"He's had bad days due to the weather before," Bruce said, thoroughly bundled in at least four different layers himself. "You might be trying to find a correlation when it's just a coincidence."

"You know I don't believe in coincidences," Tony scowled.

A second later, Bruce's gloved hand was on Tony's shoulder, comforting in both weight and warmth.

"I'll send you a status update when I head back," Barnes said, which combined with Bruce's gesture and the fact that JARVIS would alert them if Steve did end up needing help, was enough to quell the worry in Tony's chest for the moment. Before the sensation could worm its way back in, Tony reached out and turned up the music, flooding the SUV with the sounds of classic rock, loud enough to drown out the groans of protest from the backseats.

* * *

Bucky stayed far out of the way during the photocalls, only stepping out of the penned area when the site director announced the event was about to start.

"Any word from Steve?" Clint heard Tony ask, to which Bucky just shook his head.

They didn't have time for any more conversation though, since the front doors opened and hordes of people flooded the cages. When Clint looked back over his shoulder, Bucky was gone, most likely headed back to the Tower like he'd promised Steve, and Tony was headed to his designated station, rubbing at the metal bracelet on his wrist.

As the crowd approached Clint's section, the archer threw on his most winning smile and began showing off Lucky, the golden retriever Clint'd had been assigned first since he'd been in the shelter the longest. Before Clint knew it, he'd placed ten dogs with owners who were truly looking for a companion, and not just ones who were here to rub elbows with the Avengers. He'd politely refused one or two pet parents, which hadn't made the shelter director very happy, until she saw how they treated one of the dogs in the main petting pen.

It was around four when Clint's cell phone rang. Despite how much he wanted to keep showing off Bryce, the blue-nosed pit, he knew he had to answer the call. JARVIS was monitoring all their phones and directing the non-emergency numbers to voicemail.

He motioned for a shelter tech to spell him, then headed for the staff quarters, just catching the call before it went to voicemail.

"Clint?" It was Jesse. Again, he was out of breath and breathing hard into the phone.

"You got something for us?" Clint turned toward the wall and pressed his finger into his other ear to block out the background noise.

"Yeah, but it cost me."

"Where are you?" Clint demanded as he hurried out of the employee break room and out of the shelter. He scanned the parking lot, looking furiously for Happy who had promised to stay close. He spotted the SUV a few lanes away and began racing toward it.

"Safe. But I need help," Jesse was saying.

"I'll come get you. Where are you?"

Jesse rattled off the name and location of a department store in the large strip mall where his family's restaurant resided.

"Go to the bathroom and lock the door and the stall. We'll be there as soon as we can." Clint put his hand over the microphone of his phone and gave Happy the address. Happy nodded solemnly and peeled out of the parking lot.

"What happened, Jesse?"

"Uncle caught me snooping in his office for the name. I told him I needed some supplies for school but I don't think he bought it." A sob broke over the line, interrupting the connection. "I'm in real trouble, Clint."

Clint could feel his phone vibrating against his ear and pulled it away to see a hoard of messages from the team wondering where he was.

_SHIELD, _he texted back then put the phone back to his ear.

"What did I tell you two years ago?" Clint asked. "When you first started telling me about your family's business."

"That you had my back."

"And I have it now. I'm on my way, I promise." He paused then said, "but I need to know what you found out."

"They're called the Red Hawks. I think they bought some stuff from us before President Garcetti was almost assassinated."

That was absolutely not the correct phrasing, but Clint wasn't going to correct him.

"My uncle likes them—agrees with them, even."

"About what?" Clint was thrown into the side window as Happy veered around a tight corner.

"Aliens."

_What?_

Through the phone, Clint heard someone banging on a door.

"They're here," Jesse whimpered. "Where are you?"

"Close okay? Stay there, stay hidden. Is there anything you can use as a weapon?"

There was just a whimper in response.

"Answer me, Jesse!"

"Toilet bowl lid."

"Good. Go get it."

Happy pulled into the parking lot of the strip mall and Clint barely waited for the car to stop before he sprinted into the store.

"Where're the bathroom?" he shouted at all the cashiers.

Two tried to tell him they were for paying customers only but the third just pointed to the back.

"The back," Jesse panted.

"I'm close, kid."

Then Clint heard a loud crashing sound both in the phone and from the back of the store. He poured on the speed to find a man climbing carefully through a splintered bathroom door. Clint dropped his phone and tackled the man, sending them both skidding across the tiled bathroom floor.

The man was tall and athletic, and recovered quickly from Clint's attack. He jammed his elbow back, catching Clint in the jaw and, as stars exploded in Clint's vision, again in the ribs. The air rushed out of Clint's lungs and his grip slackened.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor and someone was crying out in fear. It took more effort than it should have, but Clint hauled himself to his feet and threw himself again into the man, who was reared back to kick down the door to the stall Jesse must have been holed up in.

They crashed into the wall, the man pinned between Clint and the tile, but somehow, his head didn't connect with the hard surface. He threw Clint off and into the door to Jesse's stall, then assumed a fighter's stance. Clint's vision was still a little hazy but he straightened up and did the same.

The man was fast, Clint had to give him that—trained too, if he had to guess. But Clint sparred with supersoldiers and Natasha, who was objectively more terrifying, on a regular basis. Still, he had to be strategic in his moves, to not allow the man to get closer to the stall.

Blows were exchanged and blood was drawn, but finally, the man went in for a low jab to Clint's abdomen. Clint allowed the blow to hit and while he doubled over, he reached over the man's head with both hands and shoved him to the right, toward the bank of sinks. The man's head connected with a thud, not hard enough to crack his skull but hard enough to knock him out, and he collapsed to the floor unconscious.

On the other side of the stall, Jesse whimpered, but Clint waited until he'd landed a kick to the man's ribs and received no conscious reaction to say, "It's okay. You can come out now."

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and quickly wiped the blood from his mouth before Jesse burst out of the stall and crashed into him, jarring Clint's newly bruised ribs.

"You're okay," Clint said, rubbing his hand up and down the boy's back. "I got you."

Jesse was mumbling incomprehensibly into Clint's shirt, but before Clint could ask for clarification, he heard the screaming of sirens rapidly approaching.

"We have to go." Without waiting for a response, Clint grabbed Jesse's wrist and tugged him out of the store and into the safety of Happy's car, just moments before cop cars descended on the department store.

"Hap, back to the Tower. And step on it."

* * *

**To quote Michael Westen, "That's why I like bathrooms. Lots of hard surfaces."**

**Up next, Steve's condition worsens substantially, which sets in motion the assassination portion of the fic's summary.**

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


	10. Chapter 10

**The preceding chapters were necessary to move the plot along, but in my opinion, this is where the story really starts to get good. I'd love to know if you feel the same!**

**Thanks for all your support thus far!**

* * *

"Wouldn't you rather take him to SHIELD?" Happy asked as he accelerated out of the strip mall parking lot.

"No." As soon as the SUV was in motion, Clint turned his attention to Jesse who was still shaking from head to toe. "You're going to be okay," he said slowly and calmly. "This is Happy. He's a friend of Tony Stark's. The two of us aren't going to let anything happen to you."

"You don't know my family."

"I know enough." Clint then pulled out his phone and set up the voice recorder. "I know this is stressful, Jesse, but I need you to repeat what you told me. We need to get it on record."

Jesse looked like he wanted to do anything but revisit the events of the last few hours, but at Clint's urging, he did, and with enough detail that Clint only had to ask a few clarifying questions.

"What about the aliens?"

"My uncle thinks they belong here, if they want. Apparently the Red Hawks do too."

"Who doesn't?"

Jesse shrugged. "Rumor is Garcetti, but I tried looking it up and didn't find anything."

Clint made a mental note to ask JARVIS to start running down that thread then asked, "Is there anything else that you saw or heard?"

"Nothing. It was just some notes in my uncle's ledger in his code." Jesse huffed out a laugh. "I figured it out a long time ago and never told him. Guess it finally came in handy." Jesse then tucked his arms around his chest and rubbed his hands briskly along his skin.

When Clint looked closer, he could see Jesse was shaking so he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around Jesse's shoulders. "You're gonna be okay, kid."

Jesse didn't reply.

Back at the Tower, Clint hustled Jesse into the elevator while Happy stayed behind to park the SUV. Once they'd reached the private levels of the Tower, Clint made Jesse stay in the elevator while he systematically cleared each room of the common floor. Thankfully, it was empty of intruders, but also of the rest of the team. After being asked, JARVIS placed Steve and Bucky on their respective floors and confirmed that everyone else was still at the adoption event. There were still one hundred shelter animals that needed homes, and the Avengers leaving was almost a guarantee that everyone else would too. That hadn't stopped Natasha from informing Clint that he _would_ text her if a situation arose, and followed that message with a long and detailed threat in Hungarian, just in case.

Now, with the floor clear, Clint escorted Jesse into the common room and introduced him to JARVIS, who locked down Jesse's access to any room besides the common area and the nearest bathroom.

Then Clint called Bucky. "I need an assist," he said gruffly as he threw a blanket over Jesse's shoulders. "Not Steve-related. Common room as soon as you can."

"Who's that?" Jesse squeaked, rousing enough to pull slightly away from Clint.

"It's Bucky, the guy I was with at the park." When Jesse didn't seem to understand, Clint added, "My scary friend."

This time, Jesse nodded. "The Winter Soldier." The name didn't scare him though; if anything, it seemed to calm him down.

"Yeah."

Jesse nodded once, then slipped back into his trance-like state.

Less than a minute later, Bucky burst into the common room, wielding a gun and a knife. "What's wrong?" he demanded. His expression faltered slightly as he saw the still-shaking Jesse curled up on the couch.

"Not that kind of assist."

Bucky scowled at Clint and slowly lowered his knife, leaving his gun out and ready. Just in case. "What happened?"

"He got us a name. Probably _the_ name if his family's actions have anything to do with it."

Bucky nodded then shoved his weapons at Clint. "Take them and suffer," he warned before he sat down on the couch next to Jesse. "You know who I am, right?" he asked with a softness Clint had only ever seen him use with Steve. And sometimes Natasha.

Jesse nodded.

"Then you know you're safe here."

Jesse nodded again.

"Good." With that, Bucky stood and walked back around the couch to where Clint was still standing. The archer immediately offered up the weapons and Bucky stuck the knife in an ankle sheath and the gun in the small of his back. "What's our play?"

"Get Hill or Fury over here to take his official statement then get him somewhere safe." It was only then that Clint realized Bucky was alone. "Steve's not with you?"

"I haven't seen him since we left this morning."

That was odd. "Troubled kids in need is kinda right up his alley."

"JARVIS said he paged him," Bucky said, and if Clint wasn't mistaken, there were notes of frustration and concern lining Bucky's response.

Curiouser and curiouser. Situations like these were where Steve excelled, so for him not to be down here… Unfortunately, Clint had other things to worry about at the moment. "Call Fury," he instructed Bucky, then he leaned over the couch so he was in Jesse's line of sight. "You hungry? It's almost dinner time for us old folks."

Jesse shook his head, more perfunctory than anything, and pulled the blanket tighter around his neck.

"I'm going to get you some water," Clint decided. While Bucky walked to the other side of the room to make his call—still with an unobstructed view of Jesse—Clint headed into the kitchen and retrieved three bottles from the fridge. Upon his return, he held one out to Jesse, who took it, but then stared at it, as if he didn't know what to do next.

On the other side of the room, Bucky finished his phone call then walked back over. Clint handed him one of the extra bottles of water then Bucky leaned over the couch to take another look at Jesse.

"When's Fury or Hill getting here?" Clint asked when Bucky was finished with his inspection.

"Hill will be here in twenty."

"Got it." Clint lithely jumped over the back of the couch and plopped down next to Jesse. Bucky took the long way around and sat on Jesse's other side, leaving more room between himself and Jesse than Clint had. "We have some time until the Directors get here," Clint informed Jesse. "Wanna watch TV?"

Jesse shrugged.

"I'll take that as a yes. JARVIS, _Great British Baking Show _please."

The overhead projector hummed to life and the beautiful views of Welford Park appeared on the far wall. As Mel and Sue introduced the theme of the upcoming weekend, Jesse shot Clint a sidelong, slightly mortified, look.

"Your forfeited your judgement when you didn't make a choice. And now you have to trust me and mine." Clint reached over and took the water bottle from Jesse. He unsealed the lid then handed it back. "Also, you need to drink some water. Slow sips, every few minutes."

Jesse's look persisted, but he did unscrew the lid the rest of the way and take a small drink.

"Good job," Clint said as the screen shifted to the title sequence and main theme. "Have you seen this show before?" he asked Jesse, and when the kid didn't respond, Clint added, "I need a verbal answer."

"No," Jesse replied slowly. "Just gifs."

"Well then you're really missing out," Clint said, leaning back into the sofa.

As the show progressed, Jesse gradually stopped shaking and traded his rigid posture for a heavy yet comfortable slouch. He sat like that, wholly captivated, until Hill arrived. Seeing his interest was held, she waited until the end of the episode before Clint introduced her to Jesse and outlined their plan.

While Hill started the process of officially deposing Jesse, Clint checked his phone and saw that the team was finishing up at the Humane Society and would be heading back to the Tower shortly. Leaving Bucky to listen into the deposition, Clint made his way into the kitchen to put together some hearty snacks, which he distributed once Hill was finished.

She left Jesse on the couch, picking at a sandwich, and walked over to the dining table where Clint and Bucky were standing.

"What's going to happen to him?" Clint immediately asked.

"We get him somewhere safe until the trial."

"Trial? You think it's going that far?"

"I have to be prepared." Hill looked up from her phone and focused on Clint. "I have a place for him, but no one to stay with him until tomorrow. I don't suppose you're available?" Somehow, it wasn't really a question.

It wouldn't be the worst assignment Clint had ever had. He shrugged then asked, "Where's the safe house?"

* * *

When Steve woke up, it took him a long few moments to read the bright green numbers of his alarm clock. Once he did, he shot upright in bed. It was ten PM, which meant he'd been asleep for almost ten hours.

As his brain hurried to comprehend how that had happened, other pieces of information started filtering into Steve's consciousness. He had missed both lunch and dinner and should have been starving (metaphorically) and thirsty, but he didn't really feel much of anything.

Well, at least he thought. A beat later, his back and legs started to ache with inaction, his muscles sore from not being moved for so long. It was a feeling he was familiar with from previous injuries, and knew that no amount of ignoring them was going to do any good; the only "fix" that seemed to work was movement.

Despite the late hour, Steve was totally awake, so he quickly bundled himself into a cotton sweater and track pants, over a T-shirt and long socks, and left his room. Already, he could feel his body loosening up, but he knew a simple walk wasn't going to be enough to totally remediate his symptoms.

"Gym, please," Steve stated as he stepped into the elevator. Instead of it sliding smoothly into motion though, it remained on his floor with its doors still open.

"Captain Rogers, I do not believe that is wise," JARVIS said. "You have not eaten or drank since late this morning. Without additional calories, I believe a workout of your normal variety will cause a hypoglycemic state."

Steve fixed the ceiling of the elevator with his most imploring look. "Please, JARVIS? I need to move a little bit. I promise to get food after."

JARVIS was quiet for a long moment. "I will disable everything but the treadmill and the punching bag." The AI didn't sound exactly happy about it, but the elevator doors did close and they began their trip down to the floor that housed the gym.

"Thank you."

Once in the gym, Steve fetched the wraps from his locker and began creating the zig-zag pattern from knuckles to wrist. Before leaving the locker room, he grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and drank at least half of it. Then, he held the bottle up to the camera and shook it to show JARVIS he was actually listening to the AI's directive.

Before he stepped up to the bag, Steve threw a few experimental punches to see how his leg would handle the motion. His thigh twinged when it took his full weight, but his hip and knee stayed strong. Satisfied, he assumed the proper stance and began to work.

* * *

"Staff Sergeant Wilson."

Only semi-awake, Sam groaned and batted his hand at the British voice as he buried his head deeper into his pillow.

"Staff Sergeant Wilson," JARVIS repeated, this time more insistently.

"Wha?"

"You asked me to alert you when Captain Rogers' tendencies are bordering on reckless."

Sam was fully awake in the next second.

"What is he doing?" he asked as he shoved his legs into the jeans he'd left in a heap on the floor of his room at the Tower.

"He is down in the gym, using the punching bag."

That… sounded like typical Steve behavior. Granted, it was somewhat unusual for the last week, but maybe it meant Steve was finally feeling more like himself. Sam stopped jamming his feet into his shoes and looked up at the ceiling. "Clarify why it is bordering on reckless."

"His vitals are erratic and his movements are getting sloppy, but he shows no signs of stopping. At this rate, he is more likely to reinjure himself than to gain a significant benefit. Additionally, he has not eaten since this morning and has only consumed part of a bottle of water."

Sam nodded slowly as he processed that information. "Thank you, JARVIS. Consider it handled."

"You are most welcome," replied the AI before the room descended back into silence.

Sam sat on the edge of his bed for another moment, considering his next move, then kicked off his shoes and headed back into his closet. A moment later, he emerged wearing running shorts and a sweater.

He took the elevator down to the gym, but when he got there, he peered in through the window to do his own assessment of Steve's condition. As JARVIS had said, Steve was working the punching bag. It was only due to the many hours Sam had spent with Steve in the gym that he could see JARVIS was correct, and that Steve's movements were lacking their usual finesse. Sweat beaded on his forehead and arms and his chest was heaving with exertion, but he wasn't slowing down.

Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time Sam had seen Steve in a state like this, zoning out while his body went through the motions; he knew Steve would tire out a lot faster if he actually had to think about what he was doing. It may not be the most advised course of action but it sounded like Steve needed some real interaction tonight, and not just wailing on an inanimate bag.

On the off-chance Sam was wrong though, JARVIS, who had proved time and time again that he was always watching, could call an ambulance.

"Wanna hit something that hits back?" Sam asked as he entered the gym. His voice seemed to physically startle Steve, who to his credit recovered quickly. He peered around the punching bag, and when he realized who it was, a slow smile spread across his face.

"I'll take that as a yes," Sam said as he walked over to the ring and tossed a set of gloves and a red padded helmet Steve's way. "Protective gear first." Sam followed those with a Hulk-strength protein bar and a bottle of water, which Steve caught with a scowl. "And some food and water, since JARVIS said you haven't eaten since this morning."

"I said I'd eat after," Steve groused at the ceiling, but JARVIS remained victoriously silent.

"You'll eat now, or I shut the gym down."

Steve grumbled something incomprehensible in Sam's general direction but downed the entire protein bar and bottle of water. Satisfied, Sam turned to donning his own protective gear, and by the time he'd wrapped his hands, Steve was standing in the middle of the ring with his helmet and gloves on.

"Couldn't sleep?" Steve asked, raising his gloves as Sam climbed into the ring.

"I heard through the grapevine that a certain supersoldier didn't know when to quit."

Understanding crashed over Steve's face and his hands fell to his hips. "We can stop."

"If I wanted you to stop, I wouldn't have hauled my ass down here." Sam assumed a fighting stance, then tapped Steve's downed left glove with his right. "Game on."

Sam was careful with his first few punches, pulling them slightly, until he had a real gauge of how Steve was reacting in tonight's combat-like situation. His first roundhouse Steve easily sidestepped, forcing Sam to spin out to avoid the punch he knew was heading for his ribs. He continued the move and tried to come up behind Steve for a kidney punch, but the supersoldier was already far out of his reach.

"That all you got?" Steve grinned as he turned back to face Sam, gloves up and ready.

Sam's face matched Steve's as he threw caution into the wind and charged.

Ten or so minutes later, Sam noticed Steve starting to favor his injured leg. He was barely hiding a wince when it took his full weight and he was having difficulty pushing off it quickly. It was visibly frustrating him to the point where he was getting sloppy in his desperate attempts to prove otherwise.

Instead of throwing a punch that he was sure he could have landed, Sam danced back to his corner and pulled off his helmet. "I think I'm done for the night," he lied. "Need to catch a few before work tomorrow."

From the way Steve was staring at him, Sam knew that Steve knew this was a ploy. It was almost telling though that, after a minute, the supersoldier went along with it, instead of fighting back. He just nodded and walked to Sam's side of the ring without protest.

"Thanks for coming down," Steve said while he pulled off his helmet, leaving his hair sticking up in a truly ridiculous fashion.

"Anytime," Sam said as he bent down to slide between the ropes.

"You're not really done yet, are you?" a low voice said from behind Sam, startling him. If he hadn't been gripping the ropes, he might have crashed out of the ring. As is, he barely used his grip on the ropes to smooth out his descent.

Once on the ground, he turned to see Bucky standing just inside the doorway, wearing loose black track pants and a dry-fit long-sleeved shirt. Bucky hesitated briefly as Steve looked over toward him too, but then stepped forward.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Sam said slowly. He knew Steve was holding back while sparring with him, and that the same was not true for when he sparred with Bucky. Given the way Steve was favoring his leg, it was probably better to just call it a night before he injured it further, or injured something else while going out of his way to not land fully on his right leg.

He was prepared to tell Steve as much, but when he looked over to do so, he found Steve staring expectantly at him.

"Maybe one more round?" Steve asked with a thin but hopeful smile. "I'll eat another bar."

Then again, when had Steve ever done things the easy way? It was striking Sam as odd though that Steve was basically asking permission to keep sparring. Usually Steve just barreled headlong into a thing and dealt with the consequences later.

"I don't think it's a good idea," Sam repeated, before adding, "but you're an adult. You can make your own decision."

Steve stared at him for another long moment then looked over at Bucky, who was now standing just outside the ring. "Since you came all the way down here…"

Bucky quickly wrapped his hands and pulled on the protective gear, though he looked slightly offended while he did so.

"Just… be careful," Sam had to add as Bucky bent down to slide into the ring.

To his relief, Bucky looked over at him and nodded, as if saying, _I got this. Trust me._

If there was one other person on the planet Sam trusted implicitly with the health and well-being of Steve Rogers, it was Bucky, so Sam just fetched another protein bar for Steve from the locker room, then sat on the folding chair outside of the ring to watch. Steve practically inhaled half of the protein bar then pulled his gloves back on and approached the center of the ring.

The two supersoldiers stared at each other for a beat then, as if previously choreographed, began to spar. As always, their fighting styles were things of beauty; they were dancing around the ring, dodging, weaving, punching and kicking almost effortlessly. Again, it was only because of Sam's lengthy history with both of them that he could see how Steve was struggling to move right and how Bucky was pulling those subsequent punches slightly to compensate. Yet, instead of backing down, Steve continued to force his body to move that way, as if ignoring the signals his brain was sending would somehow solve the issue.

All that changed when Bucky, who was a force of nature in himself, landed a punch that Steve should have been able to dodge. He didn't though, and crashed to the ground, landing hard on his back. Sam expected Steve to pop right back up, like he had every other time Sam had known him, but this time he stayed sprawled out, one hand clutching his chest while he fought to regain his breath.

Sam was on his feet in an instant. "I think that's enough for today."

In the next instant, Steve was back on his feet, his expression almost angry. "No!" he snapped as he threw his hands up again. "I can do this."

"No one doubts you," Sam said but Steve was already punching with a fury not yet seen that night. If it wasn't Bucky on the other end of the punch, they might not have been able to avoid it. As it was, Bucky barely got out of the way and grabbed Steve's right arm in his metal one.

"Steve—" Bucky began as he dropped his other hand to show he was done for the night.

Sam saw the next move coming but he was too far away to do anything about it.

Steve swung his left hand a lot harder than he should have, right past Bucky's downed defense. His fist connected with Bucky's jaw hard enough to send the former Soldier's head whipping around.

"Steve!" Sam slid through the ropes and sprinted toward the middle of the ring, while his brain demanded to know what exactly he thought he—the only unenhanced in the room—was going to do between two supersoldiers.

He needn't have bothered. Bucky straightened up slightly, breathing hard, and held his hands at shoulder height with his gloves pointing upward. "We're _done_."

A few steps away, Steve, who had held his form even after Bucky stumbled back, finally let his hands fall. He stared at Bucky for a moment, then horror broke out over his face. It was replaced a split second later by a wave of panic.

"Are you okay?" Steve demanded, ripping his glove off one hand and stepping closer to Bucky. His outstretched hand was shaking, but no one in the room opted to comment.

Bucky pulled away before Steve could make contact and scowled; with the blood dripping from his lips, the effect was gruesome. "I'm fine. You still punch worse than my sister."

Despite Bucky's attempt at levity, the panic and outright concern in Steve's expression didn't diminish in the slightest. "Buck, I'm really sorry."

"It's fine, Steve. Let's just hit the showers and call it a night." This time, his tone left no room for argument.

Steve still looked marginally panicked, but he swallowed hard and nodded almost compulsively as he ducked under the ropes and out of the gym.

"Are you really okay?" Sam asked. He stepped closer to Bucky who was staring at the blood on his hand with an expression that rivalled Steve's.

Then, his gaze snapped up to meet Sam's and his expression blanked out. "I'm fine," he said. "He got mostly padding." In direct contrast to his words though, Bucky then leaned over the ropes and spat a mouthful of blood into a nearby trashcan.

"Bucky—"

"No need to make a big deal about it," Bucky snapped. "He's fine, I'm fine, we're just blowing off some steam."

Now it was Sam who backpedaled and held up his hands to show he meant no harm. "I never said it wasn't."

Confusion flashed briefly over Bucky's face but then he nodded and climbed out of the ring. "See ya in the morning," he said as he walked out of the gym, leaving Sam alone and wondering what the hell was going on.

* * *

It was a little bit of an exaggeration to say Bucky _stormed_ out of the elevator on Steve's floor, but not by much. He had sprinted a few rounds up and down the stairs so he was considerably less fired up than he had been after Steve had lost control and punched him, but he was still heavily planting his feet as he crossed the distance to Steve's room.

He pounded on Steve's closed bedroom door but didn't get an answer.

"C'mon Steve, I know you're in there. We have to talk about this."

Still no response.

"I will pick the lock."

"You cannot, Sergeant," JARVIS intervened, "or I will have to initiate intruder protocol."

Bucky looked up at the ceiling and asked a profanity-laden question, that simplified to, "Are you kidding me?"

"Yes, Sergeant. It is how my protocols are written."

Bucky cursed colorfully, then pounded on Steve's door again. "C'mon, Steve. Don't make the building attack me."

Still there was only silence, which somehow angered Bucky more than it should have. _Steve_ was the one who had sat by his side and taught him it was okay to feel. _Steve_, along with Sean Maguire, his therapist, had encouraged him to share his feelings instead of keeping them locked behind a wall. And here _Steve_ was, the hypocrite, doing anything but.

Bucky stepped away from the door and looked up at the ceiling again. "JARVIS, is he alright?"

There was a beat of silence then, "My sensors indicate yes."

"Good." Bucky turned back to the door and said, "Come find me when you're ready to talk about what happened."

He had only made it a few steps down the hallway before he heard a door open. Hopeful, he turned around to find Steve standing in his doorway, leaning heavily against the jamb. His skin was a few shades paler than it had been ten minutes ago, which really accentuated the lines and shadows of exhaustion on his face.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Steve said as he crossed his arms over his chest and bowed his head so he was staring at the floor. Bucky found himself flashing back to a much smaller Steve, all elbows and knees, scrubbing the worn toe of his sneaker against a line of chalk on the sidewalk to avoid answering a question.

Present-day Steve continued speaking, pulling Bucky back into the current conversation. "I should be better, but I'm not. Should be hungry all the time, but I'm not. My leg should be fully healed, but it's not. I'm tired all. the. time. Which is insane, even for me. And sometimes, like tonight, stuff happens and I don't really know why." He lifted his gaze and shrugged. "I don't know what to do."

Bucky crossed the distance between them in a few long strides. "First of all, there's nothing 'wrong' with you. You were seriously injured and might be having symptoms from your exposure to the _alien _staff. First thing tomorrow, we're going to get you in with SHIELD medical and see what they say."

Steve hesitated. "I don't know, Buck."

"About going to the doctor or my idea?"

"Both." One corner of Steve's mouth quirked up slightly before he clarified, "but mostly the second one. They didn't find anything wrong with me before."

"Well, it's not going to hurt them to check again." Bucky stepped closer and straightened up to his full height so he could look Steve square in the eye. "It's also possible you need to cut yourself some slack. I mean, that's what you preached to me when I first got here." Steve opened his mouth but Bucky held up his hand. "If you say this is different, I will punch you in the face."

Steve's jaw slammed closed. For about a second. "I should be better, though, shouldn't I?"

Bucky was quiet for a long moment as he considered his possible responses. In the end, he knew he had to go with the truth. "Just talking about your physical symptoms, yes. Which is all the more reason we need to get you checked out."

Steve's gaze shot back down to the ground and his slouch intensified as he pulled his arms closer to his chest. "And if they don't find anything?"

Bucky stepped closer and very cautiously rested a hand on Steve's shoulder. He was prepared for all possible responses, including Steve shrugging him off or Steve leaning in, but one he didn't expect was Steve staying right where he was, eyes fixed on one particular spot on the tile.

"Look at me, Steve," he said gently. He waited until Steve tore his eyes away from the ground before saying, "We'll figure this out, no matter how long it takes."

He tightened his grip slightly on Steve's shoulder, as his friend's expression wavered and he pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line. It was clearly designed to keep something back; Bucky just hoped that sometime Steve would feel comfortable telling him what.

"Now, I can't do much about the other things tonight, but I can make another batch of my mom's soup if you're up for it."

It took a long minute before Steve shook his head. "No, but thanks."

Sure, it was concerning that Steve wasn't hungry: he'd worked the punching bag, then sparred with both Sam and Bucky. But Bucky knew if he pressed the issue now, all he'd do was make Steve more concerned, which could cycle back and make the root cause worse. Besides, Steve had technically eaten one and a half Hulk-strength protein bars while sparring, which should tide him over until the morning.

"Do you want me to stay?" Bucky asked, like Steve had many a time when Bucky had first arrived at the Tower. He'd never had the chance to reciprocate, but Steve looked so miserable right there that Bucky would have done almost anything—maybe even anything—to take away some of his pain.

Yet, Bucky wasn't surprised when Steve shook his head again; he had refused Steve's help a lot in the beginning too.

"No," Steve then said. "I'm just going to sleep the whole night through." He looked up and smiled thinly. "But thanks."

Bucky nodded. "You know where to find me if you change your mind."

Steve continued nodding slowly, almost mechanically. Bucky wasn't entirely sure Steve would have stopped if Bucky hadn't released his grip on Steve's shoulder and stepped back.

They stood there, semi-awkwardly, until Bucky couldn't stand the silence anymore. "Good night then, Steve," he said before making his way back toward the elevator.

By the time the elevator opened on the guest floor, which Bucky was inhabiting for the time being, he'd already logged into Steve's medical account and made an emergency appointment at SHIELD for the first free window: 9 AM tomorrow.


	11. Chapter 11

"What do you mean, _he's fine_?"

The SHIELD doctor, whose name Bucky had been a little too preoccupied this morning to remember, quirked an eyebrow. "You know, most people react a lot differently to that news."

"You know who this is, right?" Bucky asked, pointing to Steve, who was sitting next to him in the examination room, looking as confused as Bucky.

"Yes, I know who Captain America is."

"Then you should know that he doesn't come here willingly. So the fact that he's sitting here, telling you something is wrong, means something. is. wrong." What Bucky also didn't mention was that he'd walked into the common room at five AM and found Steve fully dressed and ready to go, even though they didn't need to leave until eight. It was the least amount Steve had consecutively slept since being injured a week ago.

"Sergeant Barnes," the doctor then turned to Steve and added, "Captain Rogers. We have put you through every test. Your bloodwork is clean, your scans are clear, your leg is healing. In my professional opinion, there is nothing physically wrong with you."

Bucky was about two seconds away from reaming out the doctor, when Tony, who had somehow finagled his way into attending Steve's appointment, cleared his throat. "No offense, Doctor Capps, but we'd like another opinion."

"Mr. Stark, I can guarantee any other doctor is going to read Captain Rogers' results the same way."

Tony only smiled. "Then please humor us."

Dr. Capps looked like he wanted to protest some more, but then he exhaled deeply and left the room.

"Maybe I'm overreacting," Steve said, once the door to the exam room had clicked closed.

"And maybe Capps' head comes to a point," Tony retorted. "Besides, Buckeroo is right—"

Despite the fact that this was neither the time nor the place, Bucky couldn't help but interject, "Don't ever call me that again."

Tony didn't so much as spare Bucky an unimpressed look as he continued his original line of thought. "If you say something's wrong, Steve, it's usually a pretty good indicator that something is."

The line between Steve's eyebrows deepened, but he didn't otherwise comment.

The silence in the room reigned heavy, before Bucky spoke up again. "I was serious, Stark," he said, in hopes the impending conversation/verbal sparring session would draw Steve out of his head while they waited for Capps' associate.

Tony seemed to pick up on Bucky's intent, since he effortlessly shifted gears. "Well, everyone on our band of misfits has a nickname: Platypus, Capsicle, Point Break, Legolas, Jolly Green. I'm open to suggestions on yours, but if Buckaroo is absolutely out, I'm thin—"

Abruptly, Steve stood and pulled on his jacket. "This is silly," he said as he struggled to get his arms through the jacket's sleeves in his haste. "Capps is right. I'm fine."

Bucky caught Steve's arm before he could get too far out of reach. His grip was firm enough to keep Steve in place but soft enough that Steve could have broken out of it if he really wanted to.

"Capps is already finding someone else," Bucky said gently. "Just see what they say."

Though Steve was still very clearly ready to take the bad news and call it a day, he did sit back down. His posture was all angles and hard lines, and Bucky knew from previous experience that any attempts to distract him at this point would be fruitless. Therefore, as oppressive and concerning as the silence was, the three of them let it linger in the room while they waited.

Finally, someone rapped on the door and, without waiting for a response, Capps walked in, followed by a middle-aged female doctor. From the moment she stepped into the room, Bucky could tell she was meant to be Capps' foil in every sense of the word.

"This is Doctor Jewell," Capps said. "I've asked her to consult on Captain Rogers' case."

Jewell then began walking through Steve's tests and explaining the results. Unfortunately, her findings weren't any different than Capps'. Deep down, Bucky knew the second opinion being different had been a 'Hail Mary' of sorts, but still, he couldn't help but be disappointed, and maybe a little sad, that no one could explain what was going on with his friend.

He looked over to see how Steve was taking the news. His friend was sitting stoically but he was following Jewell's hand motions as she pointed things out in various scans or results. Strangers might think this meant Steve was listening but Bucky knew that Jewell's words were going in one ear and out the other.

"Thank you for your time," Steve said, as soon as Jewell was finished. He, like Tony and Bucky, clearly expected the two doctors to leave the room, but they remained standing between the Avengers and the doorway.

In contrast to earlier, Dr. Jewell now looked very uncomfortable, and as she opened her mouth, all of Bucky's worst-case scenarios fluttered to prominence again. "Captain Rogers," she said somewhat hesitantly, "may I suggest that your problem might be psychological?"

"You may." Steve rose to his feet and walked over to the two doctors, who were still blocking the doorway. He could have easily pushed past them, but instead he just threw on a smile that was too wide to be genuine. "I have to be going. Thank you again for your time."

The two doctors unhappily parted and without a word to Tony or Bucky, Steve walked out of the door. Bucky was on his feet a second later, quickly following, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tony wasn't far behind him.

"Steve, wait!" Bucky called as he caught up to Steve in the parking garage.

"I'm fine!" Steve all but shouted, belying the effect his words were supposed to have.

"You're not." Bucky poured on the speed and passed Steve. Then he slowed, turned, and planted himself in Steve's path. Steve quickly looked down but not before Bucky caught a hint of a glisten in his eyes.

"But that's okay," Bucky continued. "We'll figure this out."

"There's nothing to figure out," Steve mumbled, head still down. "I'm overreacting."

"You're not." Bucky very slowly reached out and laid his hand on Steve's shoulders. When Steve didn't react, Bucky pulled him in to a hug that ended up not being reciprocated. Bucky wasn't offended though, nor did he back down. "I believe you," he said while feeling the repressed tremors running up and down Steve's back. "Tony believes you. The team believes you. We'll find a doctor who does too."

While they stood there, Bucky found his brain returning to Dr. Jewell's suggestion. When he'd first turned himself in to the Avengers one year ago, he'd been court-mandated to see a therapist multiple times a week as part of his recovery. Steve had always supported him for it and never ceased to be excited by the progress Bucky was making.

Bucky very much doubted Steve's problem was psychological, but it couldn't hurt for him to talk to someone, if for no other reason than to prove his concerns weren't all in his head. Unfortunately, it was now or never if he wanted to broach the subject.

"In the meantime," Bucky began, tightening his hold on Steve for a brief moment—to be reassuring, not to force Steve to listen to him, "would it be the worst thing to talk to someone?"

Steve pulled out of Bucky's embrace so fast Bucky almost stumbled forward.

"Didn't you hear?" Steve asked, his face twisting into a snarl. "There's nothing wrong with me."

Taken aback by Steve's abrupt change in behavior, it took Bucky a second to recalibrate the situation. By the time he had, the parking garage elevator had slid open and a wheezing Tony stumbled out.

"Next time wait for the non-" Tony broke off as he saw the harsh and ugly look on Steve's face.

"I'm gonna run home," Steve stated. "Don't wait for me." With that, he turned on his heel and sprinted toward the exit.

"The hell was that all about?" Tony asked as he came up beside Bucky.

Bucky looked over at Tony and shook his head. "I have no idea."

* * *

The drive back to the Tower was made in terse silence. Each was worried about their friend, and neither had much to say in the way of small talk. Fury called once but Tony sent it to voicemail. Bucky couldn't help but notice _his_ phone didn't ring, and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

While Tony left the car to park itself, Bucky hustled up the stairs to the common floor, palming the sensor by the door to be let in.

"Is Steve here?" he demanded as he burst into the room.

Clint looked up from the comic he was flipping through on the couch. "Haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon."

Bucky disappeared back into the stairwell and ran up to Steve's room. His friend wasn't there either, and one detailed Russian threat to JARVIS later, the AI informed him that Steve had not returned to the Tower at all.

"Shall I track his phone?"

Bucky shook his head. "No, not yet." He then trudged back to the main floor, meeting Tony, who had just stepped out of the elevator.

"He's not here?" the inventor asked, to which Bucky just shook his head.

"Why is Steve not here? What happened at the doc's?" Clint asked. He was now kneeling on the couch and resting his elbows on the top of the headrest, intently watching the two of them.

"They said he's fine."

Clint blinked. "He's clearly not fine. Did you tell them that—"

"I told them everything," Bucky interrupted, "but two separate doctors said the same thing. He's physically fine."

"He didn't take it well, I gather?"

"Ran off, actually."

"Well then this next bit of news is going to suck." Clint took a breath then said, "they want us back at SHIELD. Tonight."

"Why?" Tony asked.

"Garcetti invited the Costa Gravans back next weekend, against his advisor's orders."

"Of course they accepted. They want to be made a territory." Tony groaned as he scrubbed his hand down his face. "What time are we supposed to be there?"

"Four."

"There'll be lots of other agencies there. Fighting, politics, measuring contests. Normally things I'd love to get on film, but I'm just _not_ feeling it today. I'll show up at six." Tony considered Clint's words for another moment, then nodded and walked into the kitchen. "JARVIS, trace Steve's phone," he said as he disappeared around the corner. "Just in case."

It was a sign of how well both Bucky and Clint knew Tony (whether he wanted them to or not) that they didn't respond to his comment, knowing he'd be on-time, if not early, for a situation of this magnitude.

"How's the kid?" Bucky then asked Clint, before his brain could get too caught up in the spiral that was Steve's absence.

"Staying with people who do that for a living. Fury said they're his best."

Bucky nodded before he looked at the enormous clock hanging over the equally large fireplace. It was just after two now, a testament to just how many exams and tests had been run on Steve at SHIELD, which means they'd need to be on the road again at three-fifteen.

Dammit.

"JARVIS, force call through to Steve," Bucky instructed.

He and Clint waited while the phone rang once, twice.

Finally, Steve answered. "If you're calling to check up on me, I'm—"

"Fine, yeah I know," Bucky interrupted. "Fury wants us back at SHIELD by four. Garcetti invited the Costa Gravans back next weekend."

There was only silence on the other line.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to," Clint then said, which earned him a deadly glare from Bucky. Knowing Steve, an open statement like that was a guarantee Steve, at least the Steve before his injury, would show up with proverbial bells on. Bucky had been hoping for a… not necessarily _softer _but more private… conversation in which he was much more likely to make Steve see reason. If he was really up to it, Bucky wasn't going to stand in his way. But after the turmoil of the past few days, and especially the past hour, Bucky was hesitant that Steve's head was in the right place.

"Meet you there," was all Steve said before the line disconnected.

"Well, that went well," Tony said as he waltzed out of the kitchen, not even pretending he hadn't heard the entire conversation.

"Where is he?" Bucky asked.

"Central Park. Just sitting, I assume. His location isn't moving."

It wasn't a surprise. Steve had always liked the feeling of grass against his body, of the sun beating on his face. Those moments from his childhood were unfortunately few and far between from what Bucky remembered.

"I need a workout," he announced, apropos of nothing. "Meet you down in the garage in an hour."

He didn't wait to hear what the others were planning on doing before taking off for the gym.

* * *

Clint's previous twenty-four hours had been their own brand of exciting, but thankfully, in the end, uneventful. Before he and Jesse had been taken to the safe house, Clint had shot out a quick message to the team summarizing up the situation and saying he'd be offline until the next day. His phone and his watch had then been confiscated, along with Jesse's backpack, phone, and any other electronics.

They'd stayed at an undisclosed safe house until just before eight this morning, when an Agent Hillson, who was built like a brick wall and came with the closest thing Fury ever got to a stamp of approval, showed up at his door and whisked Jesse away—after Clint had checked in with Fury and the WITSEC office, and had JARVIS run Hillson's face, of course.

It was only then that his cell phone had been returned, and he had seen the summons from Fury for later that afternoon. Clint had texted Natasha right away, but it had taken her until lunch time to respond that she'd been called in this morning to collate the fragments of intel SHIELD had gathered on the Red Hawks. Clint had been slightly peeved he hadn't been phoned in as well—no one saw patterns like he did—but then he remembered his own assignment of keeping Jesse safe, and his original objection died away.

The other messages were from various members of the team, wanting more information on the Jesse situation.

_I'll explain everything_, he had texted, shortly before arriving at the Tower. He hadn't been expecting the welcome wagon per se, but he'd been expecting to see at least_ some _of the team. The common floor had been totally empty and JARVIS had informed him that only Bruce was home. Clint had immediately gone up to Bruce's floor and rapped on the door from the foyer.

"Hey Clint," Bruce had said as he'd pulled his glasses off his face and rubbed at his nose. It was then that Clint had seen the book in the padded nook by the window and the cup of tea steeping on a side table.

"Sorry to interrupt," he'd responded. "I was just wondering where everyone was."

That's when he'd learned Natasha had been called into SHIELD (which he'd already known), Sam into the VA, and Tony, Bucky and Steve had gone into SHIELD for an appointment.

"Willingly?" Clint'd asked, in disbelief. Steve hated the doctors, so if that was the case… Clint hadn't even been able to finish that statement. After the helicarrier, which was arguably Steve's worst injury, Steve had considered himself fully recovered after a week—though the way he had to take it easy for another told a different story—and had refused his check-up visits until Fury required them for his return to duty.

And yet, Bruce had nodded. "As far as I can tell."

Which meant something must really be wrong. But then again, Clint would have been lying if he'd said he hadn't been concerned yesterday when Steve had passed on what was arguably one of his favorite PR events of the season. "Did he say what it was about?"

Bruce had just shaken his head. "Tony said he'd text when they had news." His eyes had then drifted left, back toward his book. Bruce was far too kind to have done it on purpose, so Clint had excused himself, apologized again, then headed back for the main floor, where he'd made a sandwich almost as tall as his chest to make up for skipping breakfast and dug in.

After that, he'd watched the next episode of the fantasy show Tony had been so stoked about, laughed at some of the physics of the sword in question, then dug out the latest edition of the comic book series he enjoyed. He wasn't really reading it though, and spent more time checking his phone for updates. With texting as fast as it was, would it kill anyone to let him know what was going on?

Then Fury had called to confirm his original summons, Bucky and Tony had shown up without Steve, and they were on their way back to SHIELD before they'd really addressed any of Clint's concerns. But, in the grand scheme of things, they could be shelved—temporarily—if it meant keeping more people from being disintegrated by alien blasters.

It turned out the meeting was at the FBI field office in Manhattan at 4:30; Fury had wanted them at SHIELD, only a few blocks away, to check in on the team's progress and, as Clint quickly read between the lines, so they could arrive at the FBI office together. It was all for optics, that SHIELD was presenting a strong, united front. It wasn't the sort of game Fury usually played, which was a little suspicious in and of itself, but Clint went along with it, for no other reason than to get a better handle on the situation.

At 3:55, Steve texted them that he'd heard the meeting had changed and that he'd just meet everyone at the FBI at 4:30. Fury took that news in stride, though Clint thought he might have seen a bit of concern slip into Fury's expression briefly, but just as quickly, it was swept under the rug and a new plan set into action.

As the Avengers and Fury walked into the conference room at the FBI at 4:29 exactly, Clint recognized the assistant heads of the FBI, CIA, and a bunch of other alphabet agencies already seated around the long central table. Steve was there too, having ignored Fury's request to meet outside the building, and was mingling with a gaggle of less-formally dressed humans, who if Clint had to guess, would be the primary intelligence-gathering assets for the collection of alphabet agencies.

As soon as the Avengers entered, they were able to hear Steve apologizing for his appearance and smiling wide enough to show all his perfectly aligned teeth. It was such a strange sight after the gloom of the past week that it actually caught Clint off-guard. Just as quickly, he recognized the falsity of Steve's grin; it was too large to be real, not that anyone else besides the team seemed to notice. His crowd ate it up, going out of their way to excuse it, just so they could get a picture with the famous Captain America to prove their cred to their family and friends back home.

Clint quickly cut his way through the crowd, Bucky hot on his heels. "You okay?" he asked as soon as someone decidedly not important had finished taking a selfie with Steve.

Bucky looked about a second away from dragging Steve into the hallway and reaming him out for disappearing, and given that he hadn't done it yet, was reining in the urge remarkably well.

"Yeah," Steve said, turning his back to the crowd so he was facing just them. "It just caught me a little off-guard. I've had some time to think about it, and I'm good now. Or better, at least. Sorry to have worried you." He turned the saccharine smile on Clint and Bucky, and Clint was about ready to tell Bucky to have at it, so they could get some real answers.

Unfortunately, Bucky appeared to have abandoned that ship, after looking his friend over and confirming that he was, in fact, physically fine. "It's practically my default state," Bucky said, though his tone was just a bit too suspicious and hollow to be civil. Apparently, he wasn't as totally off the ship as Clint originally thought.

"If everyone is here," a man said from the end of the table, drawing their attention to the front of the room before Steve had a chance to respond. Thus ensued the shuffle to find a chair and once everyone was seated, Clint was able to recognize the man who had spoken as Tom Walters, assistant director of the FBI.

While the team had been struggling to find a bank of seats together, Clint realized that Fury was no longer with them. That caused Clint's metaphorical antennae to rise; for someone who was bending over backwards for the optics of this event, having him not be in the room right then meant something serious had occurred. He exchanged a look with Natasha, who began subtly tapping on her phone under the table.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," Walters began. "For those of you that aren't read up yet, President Garcetti has, against our advice, re-extended an invitation to the Andrades, the leading family of Costa Grava, for next weekend. They have, of course, accepted." The room made a muffled groaning sound that was quickly swallowed as they moved on to the impending preparations.

"The events will be held indoors this time. We will start with the dinner on Saturday night, have some entertainment, and the next morning, Presidents Andrade and Garcetti will discuss the impending territory agreement in private. The Andrades will be back on a plane by Sunday afternoon. They will be staying in the White House, so we just need to worry about transpo to and from the airport."

The door behind them squeaked open, and there was a very distinctive swish of a long coat.

"How nice of you to join us, Nick," Walters deadpanned.

"I was checking up on our Red Hawk situation," Fury said, unapologetically, as he took a seat next to Clint.

"Maybe this is a good time for you to fill the rest of us in," another man, Ethan Hasking of the CIA, said. "That is, if you're done, Tom?"

Walters was clearly displeased at being interrupted, but gestured for Fury to take the floor.

Fury cleared his throat, checked his phone, then stood. "We have positively confirmed Adrian Toomes was in possession of the staff that our unknown assassin had on him last Sunday. We've also confirmed that Toomes and his crew have been manufacturing alien-hybrid weapons, one of which was used in the bank robbery in Raleigh last week. My team is still working on confirming that Toomes' operation manufactured the sniper rifles that were used at the attempted Garcetti assassination."

"How does that tie in to the Red Hawks?"

"We have an eye witness who overheard a conversation between a group called the Red Hawks and a local fence looking for an untraceable weapon. We just got the fence's phone logs and can confirm another call from the same burner phone to the fence two weeks before the attempted Garcetti assassination."

"That's circumstantial."

"It won't be after my people get a chance to run with it. We've only had this information for a day."

Walters sighed. "What are your next steps?"

"Tracing the owner of the burner phone hopefully, and bringing in the fence. We have enough to convict him and his associates. Hopefully that starts to shake things loose." With that, Fury sat down.

"I want copies of everything you've found out," Hasking demanded.

"I think we all do," Walters agreed. "Full interagency cooperation until we can be sure the President and First Family's lives are no longer at stake."

"I'll send everything over after this meeting," Fury promised.

"Does your fence have a name?" a man who Clint didn't recognize asked.

"Anthony Soli, why?"

"We have some fragments of chatter from another op. Could be relevant."

"Could you be any less clear?" Fury deadpanned.

The man's face darkened and he was about to speak again when Walters interjected. "Not now, Amos."

Amos scowled at Fury but then nodded. "Let's sync up after," he said. "I might have a lead for you."

"Now back to the matter at hand," Walters said. "How are we going to keep the First Family and Andrades safe?"

As the room began shouting out suggestions, Clint leaned over to Natasha. "Get anything?" he asked, leaving the question purposefully open-ended.

"Chatter suggests the leader of the Red Hawks is a man named Whitehill."

"Who even are the Red Hawks? I've never heard of them."

"They're a pro-alien group protesting Garcetti's upcoming bill to keep Earth free from alien invaders."

Clint blinked. "His what?"

"With Thor and Loki's arrivals and how anyone from Asgard can just beam here with the Bifrost, they're concerned about hostile takeovers, or us being run out of our homes."

"Thor's people would never do that."

"_They _might not, but there are other realms out there. The Chitauri being one of them."

"That's what all this is about?" Clint said in disbelief. "A law? It's never going to pass. Garcetti has enough trouble getting his actually-useful energy bill through, let alone a law as crazy this."

Natasha shrugged. "It's one theory."

From the other side of the room, Walters cleared his throat. "Would you two like to share?"

"No, sorry," Clint said, sitting back in his chair. "Please continue."

Walters shot Clint a look, but did return to taking suggestions from the room about the best places to post guards, who should share watches, who was in charge of transport, who would be taking lead at the White House, and so on and so forth.

Thankfully, Clint saw the rest of the team listening actively, so he pulled out his phone, secured it, then texted the one-step-removed contact for Hillson to ask how Jesse was doing.

* * *

Around midnight, the room finally decided they had enough to get started on for the week. After ensuring again that everyone would share intel, they went their separate ways. The team rode back to the Tower in an odd sort of silence, the first any of them had had since that afternoon.

Finally, Clint couldn't take it any longer. "I think my ears are still bleeding," he said, scrubbing at them briskly. "If I hear the phrase, 'I'll put something in the books' one more time, I'm going to flip."

He didn't get much by way of response from any of the team, most of whom were buried in their phones or staring blankly out the window. Tony was in the front seat next to Happy, typing furiously; Bruce and Sam were sharing the row behind Clint and Natasha; and Bucky and Steve in the far back. Apparently, when you were Tony Stark, luxury car companies just made you cars that could accommodate the entire team.

Clint looked over at Natasha, but she too was buried in her phone, so he didn't get so much as a hint of a smile in return.

"Okay then," he said to himself as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the incredibly plush headrest.

He was absolutely _not _pouting, but a moment later, Natasha reached over and laid a hand on his leg. "Sorry, it's been a long day," she said quietly.

Clint opened his eyes and rolled his head to look at her. "Do you need any help?"

"It couldn't hurt, now that you have Jesse all situated."

Thank God. Something tangible to do. "I knew you guys needed me," he said as a wide grin split his face.

Natasha snorted and muttered something under her breath, but she didn't outwardly deny it.

It didn't matter how long Clint had been at SHIELD or a part of a team that valued him for more than just his skill set, that silent concession left him practically floating across the floor and into his bed.

Little did he know how different things were going to be in the morning.


	12. Chapter 12

When Bucky walked into the kitchen the next morning, he was shocked by the sight that greeted him. Steve, who had apparently shaved sometime in the last six hours, was sitting at the breakfast table and shoveling down a plate of miscellaneous breakfast items so quickly, it was almost as if he was worried about someone taking them away from him.

"Hey Buck," he mumbled around a mouthful of eggs. He swallowed hard then smiled widely at his friend. "Hungry?"

This behavior was so completely opposite of Steve's last night that it took Bucky a moment to get his mouth working. "Yeah," he finally said.

"There's plenty on the stove." Steve spared a moment to point his fork at enough eggs, bacon, and chopped fruit to feed the entire team, before he dug back into his breakfast.

"How long have you been up?" Bucky asked as he fixed himself a plate and took a seat opposite of Steve. This had the unfortunate side-effect of leaving his back to the only entrance into the kitchen but he trusted enough in his friend—even in this state—and JARVIS to alert him if something were to go awry. He did however shift his chair slightly to sit on more of an angle, so he could look out the cased opening into the dining room if he really wanted to.

"You know, I really didn't sleep well last night," Steve replied, somehow making that statement sound totally normal, like it wasn't cause for anyone's concern. "Had a lot on my mind."

That wasn't an answer exactly, but the semi-casual deflection was a lot more Steve-like than anything else Bucky had experienced the past week. Still, it was as good an opening as any into addressing the total shift in Steve's behavior this morning—carefully, of course, otherwise Steve would just clam up and leave. "Anything you want to talk about?" Bucky asked before taking a bite of his meal.

Steve thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"You know I'm here for you, right? If you change your mind," Bucky tried again, hoping to coax a deeper response out of Steve with this more subtle approach.

"Yeah, always."

Then again, subtlety only got you so far. Bucky put down his fork and looked over at Steve. "Can you can see how I'm a little concerned about all this, given how we left things last night?"

If Steve was taken aback by the rough shift in tactics, he didn't show it. He just waved his hand dismissively and downed half a glass of orange juice. "The doctors threw me a little off guard. I had lots of time to think about what they said yesterday, and I agree."

"With what?"

"All of it. That there's nothing physically wrong with me. I'm just in my head about it. So I'm going to try to act as normal as possible and not let whatever doubts I have get in the way, and go from there."

_What?_

"Steve, that's really not healt—" Bucky tried, but he was cut off by Steve putting down his utensils and looking Bucky straight in the eye.

"I'm fine, Buck. I promise."

He absolutely was not, but his expression was so desperate for Bucky to believe him, that Bucky found himself nodding. He didn't, of course, believe Steve and that would have to be addressed more later, but he suspected he'd pushed Steve just about enough for today.

On the other side of the table, Steve's face lit up so brightly that it chipped away at a tiny, almost microscopic, bit of the worry that had been residing in Bucky's chest for the past week. "We're going to take it slow," Bucky stated. "Until your leg gets fully cleared."

Steve's smile flickered for a split second but then it was back and brighter than before. "Sure thing, Buck," he said with a hearty nod. "Whatever you think is best."

The tiny bit of worry that had been eased by Steve's smile smashed back into Bucky's brain with full force. Not once in their history could Bucky recall Steve handing over control of something like this to him—granted, he still hadn't regained all of his memories, but the ones he had were of Steve refusing to ask for help, especially when he was sick, and struggling to do it all on his own.

_Maybe Steve was changing. It wouldn't be the worst thing._

Bucky almost snorted to himself. _Yeah, right. And maybe pigs will fly._

"Did you say something?" Steve asked, pulling Bucky back to the present.

"No." Ever tactful, Bucky shoved a mouthful of eggs into his mouth before Steve could ask any follow-up questions.

One thing was for sure, he was definitely going to be keeping an even closer eye on Steve for the imminent future.

* * *

"Dammit," Clint cursed a few minutes later.

Bucky turned toward the entrance to the kitchen, fully prepared to find Clint realizing his shirt was stained with coffee, his pants were on backwards, or he'd forgotten to put on one sock. But today Clint was fully and properly clothed in SHIELD-issue gear and scowling in Bucky and Steve's direction.

"What?" Steve asked. He'd just finished his massive plate of food and had moved onto sipping on a steaming coffee while Bucky continued eating at a normal pace.

"You shaved. I had a hundred bucks on Wednesday."

The ridiculousness of the entire situation aside, Bucky couldn't help but ask, "Who are you _possibly_ betting with?"

"A majority of the New SHIELD office," Clint said in a tone that indicated that should have been obvious. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the head of the table. "Natasha had tomorrow, so I'd avoid her until then."

"Too late," Steve said, gesturing at the entrance to the kitchen, where the woman in question was standing, dressed similarly to Clint.

Natasha took one look at Steve and shook her head sadly. She muttered something under her breath as she approached, which even Bucky and his enhanced hearing couldn't pick up.

"Ready to go?" Natasha asked Clint as she snagged his coffee and finished it in two long sips.

"The machine is right there," he protested, pointing at its closeness for emphasis. Natasha quirked an eyebrow, which caused Clint to stick out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout. Bucky was just about ready to go fetch the coffee pot himself to cut whatever this was short, but then Natasha grinned and walked over to the coffee machine, where she refilled Clint's mug, then poured one for herself.

"Where are you guys headed?" Bucky asked when Steve rather uncharacteristically didn't.

"Didn't you check your email?" When Bucky shook his head, Natasha said, "The short version is, Amos led us to Callum Lester, who owns the burner phone used to call Soli. They brought him in for questioning, ran his picture. Turns out, he was caught on film five days before the attempted Garcetti assassination leaving a truck stop in Kearny. Herman Schultz, or 'the Shocker' as he's known to Toomes' crew, pulled out five minutes later. We can't put the two together, but with JARVIS' help, we can prove that the weight of Lester's car increased by about the same amount Schultz's decreased. Does anyone want to guess how much that was?"

"The weight of the two modified sniper rifles and one Chitauri staff?"

Natasha nodded. "Lester said Schulz threw in the staff as a bonus, given that it didn't have any alien tech installed in it yet. He also gave up Red Hawks' base in return for a reduced sentence. There wasn't much there, but CSU is tearing it down as we speak."

Clint smiled. "And they need our help."

"How does Lester connect to the assassin?" Steve asked.

"He placed the assassin at some of the Red Hawk meetings," Clint replied. "Says he never caught his name."

"And all this happened last night?"

"It's amazing what can happen when the alphabet agencies decide to work together," Clint deadpanned. Then his watch chirped and he looked up at Natasha. "Time to go."

"We'll see you later," she said to Steve and Bucky. "Hopefully with some news."

Steve nodded. "Take some food."

Clint and Natasha didn't need to be told twice and left with two heaping plates.

"So what are you up to today?" Bucky asked Steve, as he rinsed his plate and began putting the remaining food in Tupperwares. The rest of the team would definitely want it at a more reasonable hour.

"If I want to get cleared, I need to get my leg back to normal, which means doing my exercises," Steve said sourly. "So that, I guess."

"And after that?" Bucky had meant the question casually, and not related to Steve's odd shift in behavior, but he knew the second the words left his mouth that that's how they would be received. Sure enough, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Steve eyeing him suspiciously.

"Is there something you want to say?" Steve's tone was low and almost challenging, and any traces of today's momentary sunshine were gone.

"I'm just worried," replied Bucky. Technically, it was the truth, but not for the reason Steve thought.

Steve's harsh expression faltered and a watery smile slipped back onto his face. "I'm fine, Buck. Promise."

Bucky returned the smile, knowing it didn't reach his eyes, and nodded. "I hope so."

* * *

Steve headed to the gym not long after, leaving Bucky in the unusual position of not knowing what to do about his friend. He considered texting the team, but didn't want to create trouble where there wasn't any.

Which got him thinking that maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing for Steve to pretend to act normal… just to sort of recalibrate himself from the last week. But even before he'd finished that thought, Bucky knew it was not only wrong, but contrary to everything he'd learned from Dr. Maguire over the past year.

So, he pulled out his phone and sent a message to a new team chat, sans Steve: _180 from Steve. Says he's feeling better. Ate a full breakfast and is down at the gym doing his exercises._

It was only a second before Sam texted back, _Willingly?_

_Seems that way._

There were some dots from Tony, indicating he was typing, but after a minute, he still hadn't sent his response. Chalking it up to Tony getting caught up with whatever he was doing in the lab, Bucky flipped over to his email client and clicked on an unread email from Fury.

Sure enough, it filled in a lot of the details of Natasha's story. Apparently the alphabet agencies had been keeping an eye on the Red Hawks for some time for various rumors and channels, and had clocked Lester phoning people, but hadn't been able to get a lock on his phone. With the help of a few agencies, they had last night, and positively connected him as the one who had called Soli the first time Jesse had called Clint. Since Lester was a known member of the Red Hawks and was now facing accessory to murder charges, he'd folded under the evidence in hopes of a reduced sentence.

The email had even included a video of Lester's interrogation.

"_What were you going to do with the weapons?" a dark-haired agent asked Lester, who was handcuffed to the metal table between them._

"_Use them for protection."_

"_Against the beings you wanted to invite here?"_

"_Just cos I don't think they should be discriminated against doesn't mean they're all gonna be good apples. If one tries to lay its eggs in me, I need to protect myself, you know?"_

"_With sniper rifles?"_

_Lester shrugged. "It doesn't hurt to be prepared."_

Even from here, Bucky could tell Lester was lying, but he wasn't surprised when the interrogator didn't call him on it. Clearly the agent wanted to get as much information as he could from Lester—even in lies there were elements of truth—while Lester thought he had everyone fooled, and would delve back into the details later.

"_What happened to the weapons?"_

"_They were stolen outta my trunk at a meeting. Never saw 'em again."_

"_When?"_

"_The week before Garcetti__–__" Lester spat at the ground beside him, "__—__was shot at."_

"_But the man on the news, he was at your meetings?"_

"_Yes. Several times."_

"_Did you get his name?"_

"_No. He sat in the back. Left right when Whitehall was done."_

The interrogation paused when Bucky's phone buzzed with an incoming MMS message from Tony. Hoping it was in response to his message from this morning, Bucky quickly switched apps. _Unusual, no? _was all Tony wrote, and a moment later, a video attachment from him followed.

Bucky clicked play and found himself watching surveillance camera footage of Steve very dutifully doing his exercises down in the gym. It was clearly from today, since Steve was clean-shaven and wearing the same clothes he had been during breakfast, but his face was surprisingly neutral and wasn't scrunching up in displeasure as he worked his way through band walks, clamshells, stretches, and bodyweight single-leg lunges.

_Isn't that an invasion of privacy? _Bucky responded, but quickly followed it with, _But no, not for today._

_He'll thank me later,_ Tony replied. Then, after a moment, _JARVIS has eyes on him now. He'll let us know if anything happens._

Bucky wasn't exactly sure what Tony thought would happen, but it couldn't hurt to have JARVIS keep an eye on Steve, just until they figured out what was going on.

"No monitoring in his room or any other private space," Bucky told the ceiling.

"Sir has already programmed in those parameters."

That level of restraint was surprisingly unusual for Tony. It just showcased how worried they all were about Steve.

* * *

The next few days passed without incident. Steve was still unusually bright and bubbly, but yet, in some situations he acted so much like his old self that Bucky found himself shying away from thoughts that something was still wrong with Steve. Maybe it had just taken him a little longer to recover from this one, and as time passed, he'd settle back in to his normal, slightly more balanced, behavior. With every passing day, Steve _did_ seem to be less mono-emotional. Last night, he'd gone almost an hour wearing a neutral, normal, non-smiling expression, which oddly enough, was unusual for him these days.

The days that passed though were long and busy. They were packed with meetings about the White House event, and the Avengers had the misfortune of being included on every one. Late Tuesday night, the alphabets finally settled on a plan that most everyone agreed on, and it was decided that they'd start putting said plan into action the next day in DC.

Getting out of the Tower wouldn't be the worst thing for Steve since he hadn't been outside since before his injury, but Bucky wasn't sure going back to the place where he'd almost… frankly, died… was the best thing for Steve right now—especially after the large swings of the past few days.

But, in typical new-Steve fashion, he'd smiled and assured Bucky he was fine.

Any other time, Bucky would have wiped that clearly-fake smile off Steve's face. But today, he just smiled back through gritted teeth and replied, "Sure you are."

* * *

Steve's head had been aching for much of the past two days. Well, if he was being honest, it had been hurting periodically since his injury ten days ago. Originally, Steve had attributed the pain to the medbay hospital beds, which despite the amount of money New SHIELD had sank into the rebuild, were still extremely uncomfortable and caused more neck stiffness than they helped. Sure enough, the ache had diminished once he was back to sleeping in his own bed and being a lot more active during the day, but it hadn't ever gone away entirely. He'd have large spans of time without it, but it always cropped back up after the smallest things: sleeping with his head propped up on the arm rest of the couch instead of using a pillow, staring too long at the SHIELD files in front of him, moving wrong in the gym, or sitting in the conference room repeating for the umpteenth time the details about the Avengers' planned protection for the Costa Gravans next weekend. Since that last point was essentially all Steve had been doing since Sunday, his headache had been constant and, unfortunately, building in intensity.

It had been manageable Monday while he'd thrown himself back into his routines, determined to prove that he was well and truly fine. He might have tried a little _too_ hard based on the reactions from his teammates, but it felt so good to feel something other than the melancholy gloom that had been tugging on him since his injury, that he'd just rolled with it, in hopes his mood would level out soon after. It hadn't yet, but he was feeling more and more like his normal self with each passing day. If not for the headache, he'd have even thought he was finally recovered from his injury.

It had taken a bit to hide the headache from Doctor Capps during his return-to-duty evaluation on Tuesday, while he was poked, prodded, and had a bright light shone into his eyes, but Steve knew if he mentioned it, he wouldn't be cleared for the Garcetti protection detail that weekend. So, he'd smiled more than usual, took any advantage his job and charm afforded him, and passed the exam. The rest of the team had congratulated him, but their reactions felt just shy of genuine. Steve couldn't blame them though. After a rollercoaster last ten days, he could see why they'd be concerned. Instead of trying to go out of his way to convince them though, he decided to let time prove that he was truly healing.

Today, however, his headache was on a level all its own. With every breath, his pulse raced through his temples, and it felt like his brain was expanding and contracting in the same rhythm. Around noon, it felt like someone was stabbing a red hot poker through his eye and no amount of reclining, resting, or rubbing helped. He'd even downed a handful of over-the-counter painkillers in hope they'd take the edge off, with no success. If anything, the white-hot pain ratcheted up another notch just to spite him.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't worried that something was seriously wrong, but that feeling was fleeting. He couldn't grab onto it for more than a few seconds at a time. Any more than that, and his brain was vehemently insisting that it was just a headache and that he'd be okay. Had he tried stretching out his neck or rolling out his shoulders?

And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was more than _just _a headache. As the day wore on and the ache worsened, he began wondering if he could ask Tony or Bruce. Whoever he could find first.

_But you don't want to bother them_, a voice in the back of his head said.

He really didn't, but he couldn't go meet the President like this. As of ten minutes ago, he could barely walk to the bathroom in a straight line. He'd be assigned something else the second he showed up at the helipad.

With an earsplitting screech, something _lurched _in his brain. Pain exploded behind his eyes and his world swiftly faded to black.

* * *

The team was supposed to assemble on the helipad at 3:15 in order to take a quinjet to DC to meet the President and his advisers, and share their security blueprints for the weekend. Five members of the team, sans Bruce who had been summoned to DC a few hours ago to add more detailed security monitoring for alien weaponry, were early, but by 3:20, Steve had yet to arrive. This would have been unusual independent of the odd past ten days, since Steve was always the one waiting on the helipad for the rest of the team to arrive. So today, for him to be absent and radio silent was more than a little concerning.

"J, where is Steve?" Tony finally asked at 3:25. They were going to be late to their meeting at this point, but Tony couldn't find it in himself to care.

"Captain Rogers is standing outside his room. He has not moved for three minutes and twenty-two seconds."

The situation was too serious for even Tony to make a joke. Barnes took a step toward the elevator, but given how Steve had been acting around Barnes since Sunday—insisting he was fine, with that obviously fake smile never leaving his face—Tony wasn't sure that was the best idea. "I'll get him," was all he said before heading up the elevator.

Not wanting to startle Steve, Tony made sure he was louder and more obnoxious than usual as he left the elevator. "Hey, Steve. We're waiting for you downstairs. Everything okay?"

He abandoned all pretenses that everything was fine when he saw Steve, dressed in his stealth suit sans helmet, bracing himself against the hallway wall with his right hand. His face was screwed up in obvious pain, and his left hand was rubbing hard at his eyes.

"Steve!" Tony shouted as he sprinted over to his friend. "Call Bruce, something's—" The words died in Tony's throat when Steve's eyes snapped open to reveal two silver irises.

As his brain raced to understand what that meant, Tony's fingers were on the move, reaching out for his Iron Man bracelets. But even otherwise incapacitated by a mysterious headache, Steve was faster. He caught Tony's hand in an iron grip and held it far outside of Tony's body. Tony tried to throw a punch with his free hand, but Steve easily sidestepped. Almost too fast for Tony to register, Steve's right hand closed around Tony's throat and used that as leverage to lift Tony into the air.

"JARVIS, mayday," Tony squeaked out, as the pressure on his throat increased and dark spots began appearing in his field of vision. "Alpha Radio Charlie."

But there was only silence. As panic swelled within him, Tony looked down at Steve to see those same silver irises and a complete lack of emotion on Steve's face. He kicked out, going for Steve's groin, but the supersoldier just turned and slammed Tony into the wall hard enough for him to see stars.

"Steve," Tony gasped, his free hand scrabbling at the hand around his throat, but Steve said and did nothing other than tighten his grip.

As Tony's vision turned blurry, he thought he saw a flash of blue in Steve's eyes, and the iron hand around his throat loosened enough for Tony to whack the pressure point in Steve's wrist and slip free.

"JARVIS!" he coughed out. His throat felt shredded and every breath was agony.

Before he could reach for his bracelets, Steve stormed forward and ripped them off Tony's wrists. The momentary flash of blue was gone, and the two silver shards were firmly back in place.

Tony tried to make his arms and legs move, but he was still too hazy from being strangled. He could only watch as Steve leaned over him, hand spread wide and centered over Tony's jaw. Steve's hand had just made contact when he snapped upright, at full attention. As Tony laid there, struggling to breathe, Steve turned his head slightly, like he was listening for something. When he looked back down at Tony again, his gaze was deadly.

Tony did his best to slide himself back, out of Steve's reach, but Steve easily closed the distance between them again.

"Don'," Tony slurred, managing to lift one shaky hand to defend himself. "'teve."

Steve's expression didn't so much as flicker as he brought the heel of his boot down on Tony's face and Tony lost his hold on consciousness.


	13. Chapter 13

**So you guys liked the last chapter, huh? :) Thanks for all the comments and reviews. They made my day!**

**Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on where you're standing), it only gets worse from here.**

* * *

On the outside, Steve was cool, calm and collected as he gathered up the Iron Man bracelets and walked away from Tony's crumpled body; on the inside, however, Steve—the real Steve—was shouting for his friend to get up. Unfortunately, he was trapped in a dark, endless room, helpless while someone—some_thing_—else controlled his body. Darkness extended as far as he could see in any direction, and the only spot of color came from a large glimmering wall in front of him that ran as high and wide as his eyes could see. Through it, Steve could see through his body's eyes and feel what his body was feeling. Yet somehow, he only had control of the version of himself trapped in the dark room.

Steve had tried screaming and moving his limbs as his hand locked around Tony's throat and hoisted him into the air, but outside of the room, nothing had happened. Despite his best efforts, his hand had tightened around Tony's throat and the light dimmed in Tony's eyes. In a moment of desperation, Steve had banged his fists against the glittering wall and finally—_finally_—his body had hesitated, allowing Tony to slip free. Steve had then pounded on the wall with greater fervor, but whatever glitch he'd manifested the first time could be found no more. He watched, helpless, as his foot smashed into Tony's face and the inventor slacked limply into the floor.

"Get up, get up, get up," Steve begged while crashing into the wall with all his strength, but Tony just lay there, motionless.

The rest of the team should have been there by now; Steve had heard Tony sound the alarm. But as his body looked around the floor, no one came. Somehow whatever was controlling him must have disabled JARVIS as well.

Steve kicked out at the glimmering wall in frustration, then slumped down beside it. There had to be a way to stop this, to get him back in control. He wracked his brain for an idea, but could only come up with one thing: cognitive recalibration.

It had worked for Clint and Bucky, so somehow, he had to make himself—or his body, more accurately—hit his head.

When Steve looked through the wall again, he found his body fiddling with the elevator keypad, preparing to disable it the moment it reached the roof. As the doors opened, his body pulled the final wire then walked toward where the team was assembled around the quinjet.

Bucky immediately slipped into place beside Steve's body. "You okay?" he asked, his expression uncharacteristically full of worry, especially in such a public setting.

"I'm fine," Steve heard himself say very harshly. Whatever was controlling him obviously was hoping that that would be a hint of some sort, but Steve knew that Bucky didn't typically back down that easily.

Apparently, today was the exception, since Bucky just nodded.

"I got you today," he said softly, so only Steve could hear. "End of the line and all."

Whatever was controlling Steve's body lifted the corner of his mouth into a lopsided smile and reached out his hand to rest on Bucky's shoulder. It felt familiar—right, even—and Bucky must have thought so too for his expression softened. Marginally.

"Where's Tony?" Natasha asked while sliding in on Steve's other side.

"SI Emergency," Steve heard his body lie. "He said he'd meet us there."

Natasha looked uncertain, which caused an icy sensation to jolt down Steve's spine. "Maybe we should wait," she said as she looked back at her teammates.

"He said it's just Pepper being Pepper," Steve heard himself say, before any of them could chime in. "He promises he'll be there."

It took Natasha a long moment, but she nodded, which, inside the room, had Steve cursing loudly. He knocked his head back against the wall in frustration as he smashed it with a wicked backhand. Unfortunately, outside the room, his body didn't react in the slightest.

"Let's head out," Natasha then said and Steve's body picked up its pace.

It had just stepped on the quinjet's ramp when the comm on the cockpit crackled to life. "'s not Steve," Tony shouted. "'s being... controlled."

Steve's shield was off his back and up in front of him in a second, and he assumed a defensive pose on the ramp. In that same amount of time, his teammates had armed themselves and were in the process of spreading out in front of him, blocking all paths off the ramp.

"Don't, please," Steve begged the glittering wall as he saw the reluctant yet determined expressions on his teammates' faces. They weren't going to go down without a fight, which was exactly what his body was ready to give, based on the way his muscles tensed.

"Let go of Steve and no one has to get hurt," Natasha stated as her Widow's Bites hummed to life in the background.

Steve felt a feral smile crawl onto his lips a second before his body sped into motion. It dodged the bullet Bucky had fired and whipped Steve's shield at his friend's legs. While Bucky was forced to step out of the shield's way, Steve's body raced forward, caught the gun Bucky was trying to bring up again, and elbowed his friend in the face. There was a sharp crack and blood spurted into the air.

Inside the room, Steve's stomach lurched. He threw himself against the glimmering wall, trying desperately to make some impact before whatever was controlling him killed his teammates. "Stop, goddammit, stop!"

Electricity sparked down the wall, sending Steve flying. He landed in a graceless heap a few feet away and could do nothing but struggle to breathe while fire raced up and down the left side of his body.

Somehow, he still had full sensation of his body outside the room. Unfazed by the electric shock, it was moving to strike Bucky again. Before Steve's fist could connect, something crashed into the back of Steve's head. It was a blow that should have sent him to his knees, but Steve's body just whirled around and grabbed the object—Clint's bow. His body twisted at the wrist to turn the bow around and jabbed the end into the archer's vocal cords. Clint went down and stayed down once Steve's body kicked at his jaw.

Steve's body continued the motion and drove Steve's foot into Bucky's stomach, sending the former Soldier flying across the room. Then it turned to fend off the simultaneous attacks from Natasha with her glowing Widow's bites, and Sam who had grabbed a set of quinjet chalks and was swinging them like a set of nunchucks. The two of them combined were harder to take down, because they were more aware than Clint had been, but a sharp hit to Sam's ribs that knocked the wind out of him for long enough for Steve to land a blow to his head, and throwing Natasha into the side of the quinjet, did the trick.

Then it was just Steve's body and Bucky, who was launching himself back across the helipad. Bucky's nose was definitely broken, judging by how it sat just off center, but it didn't seem to stop him. Once in arm's reach, Bucky unleashed a deadly combination of blows that Steve's body easily blocked. Inside the dark room, Steve felt every one land, but outside, his body kept moving, seemingly unaffected.

Inside the room, it was hard for Steve to pull himself to his feet—while the effects of the electricity had worn off, Bucky had landed some incredibly painful and debilitating blows—but eventually he managed. Stumbling and uncoordinated, he hurled himself again and again against the glimmering wall, cursing, screaming, and pleading, while his body and Bucky danced around the helipad, ducking, punching, kicking, and spinning. Then, Bucky's foot snapped into Steve's ribs and Steve felt the wall shift slightly. With all the strength he could muster, he threw himself at the small opening and shouted Bucky's name.

If Bucky heard him, he didn't respond. Instead, he pulled a syringe from his pocket and jabbed it into Steve's thigh. In an instant, Steve felt the warming numbness race through him, turning his legs to jelly. As he collapsed against the dark inky floor, his body didn't even pause its assault.

Bucky had obviously expected the syringe—Hulk strength tranq, if Steve had to guess—to work faster and had hesitated ever-so-slightly after deploying it. He recovered fast enough that a normal human probably wouldn't have noticed the lapse, but Steve's body did.

As the glimmering wall snapped back up, Steve's body landed a punch to Bucky's cheek, just shy of his broken nose. It was enough to overload anyone's pain sensors, supersoldier or not. Bucky stumbled back, slightly doubled over, which allowed Steve to bring his knee up into Bucky's jaw.

"No," Steve slurred as he tried to pull himself to his feet, but it was too late. A split second later, the tranq had washed up his entire body, leaving everything but his brain in an uncomfortable emptiness. For some reason, he hadn't lost consciousness, which only made it worse as he was forced to watch Bucky's eyes slip closed. His eyes shot to Bucky's chest, looking for even the slightest breath, but his body turned away before Steve could know for sure.

He lashed out with every fiber of his being but wasn't able to move even a pinky.

He swore and screamed but his mouth didn't open.

He was completely helpless as his body climbed into the quinjet, ripped out some wires under the dash, and set course for D.C.

* * *

Tony thought JARVIS had only been disabled on Steve's floor, but it turned out the AI had been disabled throughout all the residential levels. In some true level of mastery that Tony didn't fully understand, JARVIS had been tricked into thinking it was working and hadn't reported any issues. In reality, it wasn't getting real-world inputs and therefore hadn't alerted the team when Tony had called a code.

The express elevator was apparently damaged so, after regaining consciousness, Tony had been forced to take the stairs up to his lab in order to grab a suit. His body ached with the remnants of the fight and, with every step, his breath grated against his injured throat. When he finally made it to his workshop, he collapsed against the cool glass wall, gasping for air, while his shaky hand struggled to input his passcode.

It was only once he was inside that he caught a glimpse of his bruised and bloodied face in one of the lab's many reflective surfaces; whatever was controlling Steve had done a real number on him, but fortunately, the damage seemed superficial. Sure it hurt like hell, but he could still move his jaw without the white-hot pain of a broken bone, and his cheek, while swelling into his eye, was only throbbing dully. His throat was by far the worst, but even that seemed like it might fully heal with time.

Tony had tried to reach the team many times since regaining consciousness but had yet to get a single reply. Thousands of truly awful scenarios flashed through his head, but he pushed them away until the suit was clanking closed around him.

He crashed out the window, not caring much about property damage, and flew to the roof to find his teammates' bodies splayed out across the helipad and the quinjet nowhere in sight.

Inside the suit, JARVIS was fully operational and was splitting his time between tracking and trying to remotely disable the quinjet and scanning the Avengers' vitals.

"They're alive, sir," JARVIS reported, and sure enough, as Tony landed, he saw Barnes stir. "However, I am unable to remotely override the quinjet."

"Keep trying and call Fury," Tony rasped out as he landed beside Barnes.

"I cannot get through."

"Hill?" Tony asked, but received the same result.

"The White House?"

"The call will not connect."

What the hell was that thing controlling Steve, and how the hell was its influence spreading this far?

Questions mounted but Tony didn't have the time to iterate over them. He crouched down just out of Barnes' reach and said, "Hey, Barnes," through the suit's external mics.

Barnes' eyes snapped open and he lurched to his feet with a growl. He immediately scanned the roof around him, and began to curse colorfully between spitting out mouthfuls of blood when neither Steve nor the quinjet was in sight.

Then, his gaze whipped over to Tony and there was a shade of desperation in his expression that frightened Tony more than he already was. "You hafta go after 'im," Bucky said thickly, his pronunciation muffled by his obviously broken nose. "Go! I got 'em."

As much as Tony wanted to stay, it really wasn't an option.

"I'll try to send a 'jet back for you," he called as he launched himself into the air and took off for D.C. The quinjet, though faster than normal modes of air travel, wasn't as fast as the suit, but Steve had quite the head start. Trajectories and interception courses flashed in the suit's HUD, which also showed the quinjet crossing into D.C. airspace.

"Try the White House again," Tony ordered before his words dissolved into a cough which annihilated his already injured throat.

"Same result as before, sir."

"Keep trying! And call Rhodey."

"I can't—"

—get through to him either. Of course not.

"Be more creative, J!"

Since speaking now felt like he was munching on razor blades, Tony fell silent and focused on cutting down his time to the White House.

* * *

Steve's body easily put down the quinjet in the designated area on the White House lawn. It checked his reflection in the glass and wiped away a trail of blood dripping from his forehead. Both sides of his neck were raw from the Widow's Bites, but his body just pulled up the collar of his suit higher to hide them before retrieving his shield from the copilot's seat. As Steve's body climbed out of the quinjet, it slid the shield onto its back, waiting until the magnets hummed to life before loosing his grip.

"Captain America," the ground crew said respectfully, which made Steve, who was still lying numbly on the ground of the dark room, want to throw up. He had no idea what this thing controlling him wanted, but he sure as hell knew it was nothing good, especially in the White House of all places. Vainly, he tried again to move with the same result, or lack thereof, as earlier.

"This way," an aid said, motioning for Steve to follow him. His body did so easily, walking through the massive glass doors and down a series of hallways, the last of which dumped him out in front of the Oval Office.

There were four Secret Service agents, two on each side of the door, all of whom nodded at Steve's body as it stepped in the Office. Garcetti was sitting behind his desk, flanked by two advisors and two more armed agents. The second Steve's body set foot in the room, it flew into motion.

It threw Steve's arms out, smacking them into the two closest agents, who were now a half-step behind where Steve's body was standing. As the agents stumbled back from the force of the impact, Steve's body quickly reached out to the closest agent and tore his service weapon from his holster. With his free hand, Steve's body yanked the door to the hallway closed, trapping the other two agents outside the Oval Office, and used his super-strength to snap off the handle. Then, he pulled the shield off his back and threw it across the room, wedging the far door to the colonnade closed. In the same motion, his body fired the gun at the two closest agents, who dropped to the floor and didn't get up.

All this happened so fast that it was only now that the armed agents on the far side of the room began to fire their own weapons. Steve's body effortlessly dodged the spray then dropped behind the closest couch. It crouched there until it'd determined where the two agents were standing based on the trajectory of the bullets, then stuck the stolen gun over the top of the couch and fired twice.

The rain of bullets overhead ceased. Steve's body waited until it heard the bodies drop before it stood and trained his gun on the two advisors, who were staring at him in confusion.

"Captain America?" one of them stuttered while the other froze at the sight of the gun in Steve's hand.

Garcetti was the only occupant who was taking Steve's body's actions in stride. "What have you done with Captain America?" he demanded. His hands were pushing into the desk like he was ready to rise from his seat.

"He's right here with me," Steve's body said, his voice low and gravelly. "Pull the shades," it then ordered the advisors, who shakily followed its request and lowered the blinds to the windows behind the Resolute desk.

* * *

Thankfully, Tony had programmed JARVIS with enough technology to handle landing Iron Man on his own. Otherwise, if Tony had had to land it manually today, he most certainly would have crashed.

The second the Iron Man boots hit the grass, the HUD lit up to identify the previous sound as gunfire and pinpoint its origin to the Oval Office. The Secret Service around the quinjet, which was sitting idle, jolted into motion and began racing toward the White House.

Tony kicked on his thrusters and quickly sailed over the guards, landing in front of them but turned, so his back was to the White House.

"Let me handle this," he said, thankful JARVIS was filtering out the rasp of his voice.

One officer moved to push past Tony, who just held out one repulsor, which was glowing softly.

"Stand down," he ordered JARVIS as the Secret Service agents' guns shifted to point at him.

"You need to let me handle this," Tony said to the agents, hoping he could convince them before they acted on what was clearly a presumed threat. "It's not Captain America in there. It's a very powerful lookalike who you aren't prepared to handle."

"Mr. Stark, our job dictates we go in," one agent countered.

There were two more gunshots.

"Give me three minutes." Tony didn't wait for an answer before blasting off again.

* * *

Steve struggled again against the tranquilizer and this time, was able to slur out some pleas to leave the advisors alone. His momentary hope that the tranq was wearing off quickly died as he found himself still unable to move his body or to stop his index finger from twitching. The gun fired twice more, leaving Steve's body alone in the Oval Office with President Garcetti.

"What do you want?" Garcetti demanded.

Steve's body didn't say anything. It just motioned with the gun for Garcetti to walk toward him. Garcetti hesitated, so Steve's body walked across the room, stuck the barrel of the gun into the side of Garcetti's head, and dragged him to the center of the room, away from all points of ingress.

Steve's body then released Garcetti and stepped just far enough back to press the gun into Garcetti's forehead.

"You will gain nothing by doing this," Garcetti said. Fear shone in his eyes but the rest of his expression was surprisingly blank.

"We will see," Steve's body spat.

Just as Steve's finger tightened on the trigger, there was a crash of glass. Instinct took over and his body was diving for the floor before his brain tried to squeeze off the shot. The gun discharged as he landed but since Garcetti was no longer standing in front of him, the bullet embedded itself in the side wall of the Office.

"Stand down," a metallic voice said and, inside the black room, Steve could have cried in relief when he recognized the voice as Tony's, distorted through the Iron Man suit. As Steve's body peeked over the couch, it saw the suit standing between the second couch and the Resolute desk. The suit's repulsors were out and glowing and trained on the couch Steve's body was hiding behind. Garcetti was nowhere in sight.

"Hand over the President," Steve's body ordered, as it rose to its feet and trained the gun on Tony.

"You know my suit is bulletproof."

"But your releases are not." Whatever was controlling Steve's body lowered the gun slightly and fired at the dial on Tony's hip. The Iron Man suit just barely swerved out of the way to avoid the bullet. Steve's body scowled and fired a second time, again missing the suit as Tony jumped out of the way. It fired one last time, but the gun clicked empty. Steve heard his body howl in rage as it threw the gun aside.

"I don't want to hurt you," the Iron Man suit said, training its repulsor on Steve again. "But I will if I have to."

Steve's body was undeterred. Inside the dark room, Steve felt nothing short of murder course through him like a physical wave as, outside, his expression bordered on derisive. "Where is the President?" his body asked as it took a step around the couch.

Iron Man's repulsors glowed brighter. "Move again and I will shoot you."

"You wouldn't dare." Steve's body took another step and, true to his word, Tony fired.

* * *

The blast grazed the outside of Steve's leg. It should have brought him to his knees but the supersoldier remained standing.

"Is that all you got?" Steve laughed, a positively sinister sneer on his face.

"I will shoot you if I have to," Tony repeated, while watching Steve's vitals in the HUD. While the outside of his thigh was raw and singed, his pulse and respiration had hardly shifted.

"I am still unable to get a hold of anyone, sir," JARVIS reported. "And my attempts to bypass that being's work are just being overwritten."

Of course it was. Which left Tony in the nightmare from hell with Steve, who wasn't Steve, trying to murder the President.

Steve took another step closer and was now at the arm rest of the couch that Garcetti was cowering behind. With one more step, he'd have a direct line of sight to Garcetti. It didn't appear that he had any more weapons, but Tony wasn't about to take that chance.

This shot was slightly higher and grazed Steve's opposite hip. Again, the leg should have buckled, but Steve just grinned ferally. "He can feel all of this!"

The remark was meant to goad Tony into doing something dumb, but it struck home anyway. He was sure Steve had taken some damage during his fight with the other Avengers, so those combined with the two new repulsor burns meant that, somewhere, real-Steve was in a world of pain.

"He's in there with you?" Tony asked.

Steve, eyes still silver, nodded. "His friend Barnes tranquilized him, so talking is a bit much for him right now. Maybe after we kill Garcetti."

As much as it physically hurt Tony to do so, he upped the strength of the repulsor. "Not going to happen."

"You're not going to kill him," Steve said with a hollow, haunting, and horrific laugh.

"If it's that or killing the President, I know what he would choose."

"Prove it."

Steve lunged around the couch, leaving Tony no choice. He pulled up his other hand, which had been primed on full-power, and fired a third time.

The blast hit Steve low in stomach and the sizzling sound that followed was one that would haunt Tony's nightmares for the foreseeable future. Steve crashed to the ground beside the couch, while Garcetti took his chance and sprinted toward Tony to cower behind the suit. A few feet away, Steve's body spasmed twice then went slack.

Tony kept his repulsors up as he stepped closer, but Steve didn't move again.

"Clear," he called after a long moment. He didn't look away from Steve's body, but he heard a group of people crash through the window behind him. Just as quickly, he felt more so than heard the President being escorted from the room.

"We need SHIELD medical in here, STAT," he shouted, to whomever could hear him. "Full set of restraints. And find me Dr. Banner. Or anyone else who knows what the _hell_ is going on."

"Yes, sir," one the agents said before the room was again emptied, leaving Tony standing over Steve's bleeding body and desperately hoping he hadn't in fact killed his friend.


	14. Chapter 14

Thick, Stark-lar bands kept Steve bound to the operating room table. There was one around his chin—because they didn't want to risk him strangling himself on one around his throat—one high on his chest just under his arms, one around his ankles, and a thin one around his thighs, perfectly placed between the two repulsor blasts. He was also hooked up to an IV of supersoldier-strength painkillers, in excess of what was considered normal for a regular injury of Steve's, in order to keep him unconscious while the surgical staff irrigated, suctioned, wiped, set and stitched**. **In addition to the laceration on his forehead, Steve had accrued two decently serious burns on his neck—Tony recognized the pattern as Natasha's Widow's Bites—a myriad of bruises and a couple of broken ribs during the fight with the team. The damage from the repulsors, as expected, was much worse, and was where the surgical staff was spending most of their time.

Bile rose into Tony's throat as he saw the damage he'd inflicted appear on the various screens spread throughout the operating theater. The only thing that kept him from looking away was the fact that, if he hadn't acted, Steve would have killed the President and who knows how many more until someone had stopped him—maybe even permanently, if that someone else didn't have JARVIS' precise calculations backing their shot. The six that had lost their lives under Steve's hand but this _thing_'s vision were going to weigh on Steve enough as it was. That was, of course, assuming he remembered anything from the last ten days once his brain and body were his own again.

Time got a little fuzzy as Tony's brain ran away with the potential implications of that thought, and he was only brought back to the observation deck by a set of approaching yet uneven footsteps. Tony's hands were instinctually moving for the mostly undamaged Iron Man bracelets they'd retrieved from Steve's utility belt, before his brain recognized Barnes limping toward him, still dressed in his combat uniform.

Barnes' face was still caked with blood but his nose had been returned to center. Having seen the security footage from the helipad, Tony was sure there were more injuries underneath the combat suit, but he was also sure that since Barnes was walking—for some definition of the word—and conscious, calling him on them would only get him an annoyed stare, if any reaction at all.

Then again, Tony wasn't one to talk. He had brushed off all medical attention for his own battered body, in favor of keeping a close eye on Steve. He wasn't so arrogant as to believe that his unenhanced self could handle the situation any better than the rest of the team, so he'd brought in the big guns and left his Iron Man suit in the operating theater in sentry mode, in case whatever was controlling Steve came around again and couldn't be contained through normal, less painful, methods.

Even though JARVIS had been tricked into thinking it was still receiving real input, the footage from the helipad had been recorded as usual and saved to a disk in the server room. JARVIS had reported this fact while Steve was being prepped for surgery, leaving Tony no choice but to watch the absolutely brutal fight. It had been hard to sit through for many reasons: Steve's unflinching expression as he landed blow after blow to his teammates, his silver irises that never shifted back to blue even for a second, and almost most jarring, his utter lack of restraint. When fighting humans, Steve _always_ reigned himself in, so he wasn't shattering spinal columns or snapping bones unless absolutely necessary. Today though, every punch, every contact, was being thrown with Steve's full strength; had the team not been as trained or as in shape as they were, it wasn't hard to imagine another outcome to that fight, one even worse than current.

Tony couldn't find the words to describe the fury that raged through his system at the realization that someone—something—had done this to their supersoldier, and was so in control that it had overridden one of Steve's most basic principles. Needless to say there wasn't going to be much left of whatever it was after they'd freed Steve from its control.

Back in the present, Barnes didn't so much as acknowledge Tony as he slowed to a stop beside him, and peered into the operating theater. The silence that hung between them was so tense and uncomfortable and _heavy_ that Tony couldn't stand it any longer.

"Did you set that yourself?" he asked, referring to Barnes' nose, which at this distance, he could see was still slightly crooked.

Barnes didn't look away from the theater, where they were rolling Steve slightly onto his side to have better access to the wound on his hip, but his lack of a response was all the answer Tony needed.

Unfortunately, that was the end of that conversation, but if Tony wasn't mistaken, the space between them was a little less uneasy… or he was so physically and emotionally exhausted that he didn't care anymore. Either worked.

"It said he was still in there?" Barnes asked a few long minutes later while the doctors continued to stitch and stitch and stitch. Barnes' voice was thin and raspy, and tinged with a hint of desperation.

Tony just nodded, unable to give voice to the horrifying idea that Steve had been riding shotgun through all this awfulness.

Barnes seemed to be having similar thoughts based on the way he shook his head, almost in disbelief, while swearing softly under his breath.

"Almost done over here," someone down in the operating room reported. It was a welcome distraction since Tony was physically unable to deal with any more emotions, repressed or otherwise, for the moment.

Tony and Barnes watched the surgical team continue their work in silence. Whether it was because of, again, exhaustion or some sort of latent defense mechanism, Tony's brain began to wander and it wasn't long before he realized Barnes was the only one of the injured four Avengers who had come to check on Steve. "How's everyone else?" he asked, slightly guilty.

"Barton has a cracked jaw, Wilson has broken ribs and a serious concussion, Romanoff has broken ribs and possibly a tear in a ligament in her knee."

Not to mention the other assorted cuts, bruises and sprains Tony was sure they were all left with. But they were all alive, which was not to be taken for granted.

"Where are they?"

"Barton and Wilson got booked for the night. Romanoff should be out soon."

"Bruce?" Tony had only seen him briefly while Steve was being prepared for surgery. They'd barely exchanged a few words before Fury, in a truly awful disguise, had asked if Bruce would follow him for a consult. Since Fury hadn't used force, Bruce had promised Tony he'd check back in later then left. That had been three hours ago.

Barnes shook his head.

They drifted into another silence after that, eyes fixed on the other side of the glass. A long while later, Barnes cleared his throat, and Tony knew what the question was going to be before Barnes opened his mouth.

"Can you fix him?"

In the reflection of the large pane of glass, Tony saw Barnes looking pointedly into the room and away from Tony, as if he knew what the real answer was and was trying to physically avoid it.

"We're going to try." It was hardly the reassurance Barnes clearly wanted, but it seemed to have the intended impact.

He nodded, then slowly turned his head to look at Tony. "Thank you."

Tony was saved from having to respond by his watch beeping.

"Sir," JARVIS said. "I have something you need to see."

* * *

As Tony walked out of the observation deck, he felt some of the air return to his lungs. He wasn't sure if it was because of an actual injury from getting slammed into the wall by Steve, the prolonged proximity to Barnes without Steve as a buffer, or this entire situation weighing down on him, but whatever the reason, he was grateful to have a short reprieve.

A doctor appeared out of nowhere and approached Tony, obviously intent on treating him, but Tony brushed the man aside. Besides the fact his throat felt like it was being cut to ribbons with each breath, he was fine—and he was a lot better off than the rest of the team.

"Mr. Stark, I really think—"

Tony stopped in the middle of the hall and turned around to face the doctor, who scrambled to stop without running into Tony.

"Tell you what," Tony rasped out. "I have some things I need to take care of. Can I come find you in a few hours?" He wasn't negligent enough to think he didn't need to be seen at all; he just needed some time to get a better handle on the situation. Normally, he'd keep that information to himself, but telling the eager doctor would short-circuit the usual escalation path, where Natasha or worse, Coulson, would be brought in to drag him to treatment. Both of them would retaliate by having Tony be seen by SHIELD's least personable doctor, a decrepit elderly woman named Jansen, who preferred very invasive and very pointy tests, instead of the one in front of him who didn't look totally terrible.

Said doctor, _Han_, his badge read, blinked in surprise. He recovered quickly though and nodded. "Exam room 3 in three hours."

"Done." Tony spun on his heel and continued toward the private waiting areas in the back of the hospital. "Whaddya got, J?"

"It is not good news, sir." JARVIS waited until Tony had turned the corner before projecting a holograph out of his watch. It was of a news segment, featuring a local reporter standing outside a police barricade with the shattered windows of the Oval Office in the background. The ticker tape read, "Captain America: Assassin?"

Tony swore under his breath and turned up the volume.

"Steve Rogers, more commonly known as Captain America, walked into the White House today as part of the regularly scheduled preparations for the second visit from the Costa Gravan officials. He left in a stretcher, bleeding and restrained. What happened between those two events seems almost unreal, even though we've heard corresponding stories from multiple, unrelated parties.

"According to our sources, Captain Rogers killed four members of the Secret Service and two of President Garcetti's advisors before attempting to kill the President himself. Thankfully, Tony Stark, the man behind the Iron Man armor, was able to stop Captain Rogers in time.

"A bystander was able to capture this video, which we will play for you now. Please note: the faces of the victims have been blurred out in order to give the police time to notify their next-of-kin."

"Do I want to see the video, J?" Tony asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

Sure enough, JARVIS replied with a grave, "Probably not, sir."

As if sensing Tony's true intention though, the holoscreen shifted to a still image of some asphalt, then began to play. The video was shaky, grainy, and deeply zoomed-in, but it flicked up to show Iron Man crashing through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Oval Office. The feed then dropped to the street again as the operator presumably relocated for a better angle, and shortly after, it zoomed in more on Steve, who was pointing a gun at Iron Man, before it bounced down to show Garcetti crouching behind the couch.

The operator had been too far away to pick up the audio, but Tony remembered exactly what had been said. His stomach clenched as he watched Steve fire at the Iron Man armor then throw the gun away when it clicked empty, and the knots only became worse as Tony watched himself fire twice at Steve when he wouldn't stop moving closer, then a third, more serious, time when Steve lunged toward the President. When Steve dropped out of frame, the video switched back to the news desk and the anchors began analyzing what they had seen.

The next word out of Tony's mouth would have gotten his mouth washed out as a kid. "Get the spinners on this, J. See what they can come up with that's not a total detriment to Steve's career. Can we do Skrulls? Lookalikes? Holographic masks?"

"Consider it handled, sir."

Tony thought for another moment then added, "Block all calls to any of our cell phones from the media, and get a hold of Pepper. She's going to be worried sick when she sees this." A cough tore up his throat, sending Tony doubling over as his pain intensified. He limped over to the water fountain and took a few long pulls, feeling the cold soothe his aching throat.

"If I may, sir, I believe you should see Dr. Han sooner rather than later."

Tony waved his hand dismissively. "It can wait. What about Pepper?"

JARVIS almost sighed before he said, "She already knows, sir. And since you were unavailable in the operating theater, she has asked me to inform you that she expects a full explanation in person."

Tony nodded, then slammed his palm down on the hologram to collapse it back into the watch.

A split second later, his watch chirped again, and this time Maria Hill's face appeared on the screen. "I assembled everyone I could," she said as soon as Tony accepted the call. "Conference room six."

"Where?"

Hill quirked an eyebrow at him. "The hospital, of course."

So Tony could be around if the team, specifically Steve, needed him. Wherever Hill's next vacation was, SI was going to find a way to upgrade it.

"I need an hour," he said. He had no idea how long the conversation with the newly-assembled specialists would go, and if he'd have time during it to leave for his appointment with Han. So—and somewhere JARVIS was smiling widely—it was best to get seen by Dr. Han now, before Pepper, Natasha or Coulson had to get involved. "Did you find Bruce?"

When Maria nodded, Tony continued, "His lead, then. If they show up early, have them summarize their findings. We're going to need to land on a collective solution STAT."

Maria nodded then hung up, thankfully without asking how Tony was.

He wasn't entirely sure he knew how to answer.

* * *

Dr. Han didn't necessarily have an opening, but after Tony offered to cover Han's next patient's bill in full if they would wait, he was seen right away.

As Tony suspected, there wasn't much anyone could do about the bruising, except give his body time to heal. After Han used a portable X-ray to confirm that none of the bones in his face were broken, he prescribed some numbing spray for the back of Tony's throat which actually did what it advertised. The sharp knifing sensation wasn't gone entirely, but it felt more like a sore throat than a serious injury—as long as he kept reapplying the spray once an hour.

Tony was well within his allotted hour by the time he texted the team with his update and asked for one from each of them. All he knew about their injuries was what he'd heard from Barnes, and while it seemed like they were getting the medical attention they needed, it didn't hurt to make sure. Clint and Natasha weren't quite as bad as Steve, but they'd more than once been caught trying to pass off a serious injury as a minor one so they didn't have to go to the medbay after a battle.

To Tony's surprise, Bruce was the first one who responded to his message, with a note that 'good discussions were being had', and that Tony should join when he could. Tony texted back a quick 'on my way', then headed toward the nearest elevator.

Less than five minutes later, Tony was walking into the conference room Hill had specified. Well, at least, he tried to. It was so filled with people that he could barely crack open the door.

For a split second, he thought he was in the wrong place, but then he saw Alhambra among the faces and made a mental note to not only upgrade but bankroll Hill's next vacation in full.

Through the gaps, Tony was able to spot a table in running along the center of the room, surrounded by scientists and doctors who were discussing at least five different points simultaneously. There were at least eight scientists video-conferenced in and their camera feeds lined one wall from end-to-end. From what Tony could tell, there was only one free space in the entire room, and it was at the head of the table next to Bruce, who was sitting silently but looking extremely uncomfortable in the tight space.

"What do we have?" Tony asked as he forced his way into the room, but his already limited voice was lost in the din.

They weren't going to get anything done in this chaos.

Tony stuck the tips of his middle finger and thumb into his mouth and whistled loudly. Though the sharp sound had the intended impact, it left him doubled over and struggling to pull air past his newly aggravated vocal cords.

A bottle of water, thankfully unopened, was pushed into his hands before he heard the sound of shuffling. When Tony had straightened up again, he saw a clear path toward the head of the table where Bruce was on his feet, ready to offer aid.

Tony took a long pull of water while waving his hand dismissively at everyone's collective concern.

"What do we have?" he croaked out as he walked toward the free seat and lowered himself into it.

He recoiled slightly as everyone in the room began to speak at once. He raised his hand to whistle again, but was beaten to the task.

"Quiet!" Bruce roared from beside Tony and the room went so silent that everyone could have heard a pin drop. "We'll go around the room and everyone can present their theories for Tony to hear," Bruce then said, much more quietly. "Dr. Shepherd, we'll start with you."

Some of the theories that proceeded to be suggested made a lot more sense than others, but most were quickly discounted by the rest of the room. Mind control for one, since the room where the team had met the assistant heads of the alphabet agencies had essentially been turned into a Faraday cage. This, combined with the latest scans, also eliminated the use of an implant to influence Steve's decisions. Besides, no technology any of them were aware of could explain the almost trance-like state Steve had been in, his changing eye color, and the total, unhesitating limbic control.

That's when the room really started running wild: a brain tumor, a reaction to some sort of surgery drug—

"I highly doubt a reaction to general anesthetic would cause someone to want to kill President Garcetti," Dr. Capps said mildly.

The doctor who suggested it seethed from the other end of the room but didn't retort.

—some sort of late-onset dementia, an undiagnosed brain injury—

"With no other symptoms of memory loss? I don't think so. Besides, there are no masses or bleeds in any of his scans."

—dissociative identity, substance abuse—

"His body burns through the substances too quickly. With the sheer quantities he'd have to ingest, he'd have to be consuming them almost constantly."

A woman on the other side of the room just rolled her eyes. "Are we really suggesting Captain America has a massive undiagnosed drug problem?"

—PTSD—

The room fell silent for that suggestion, before they collectively turned to one individual in the far right corner. Reading the room, Tony would guess she was an expert of sorts.

"It's possible," the woman said, but before she could continue, a crazy-haired doctor conferencing in spoke up.

"Aliens," he declared before sitting back self-assuredly in his seat.

The room erupted with all the reasons that definitely wasn't possible. At the same time, Tony's stomach sank down into his knees.

"Explain," he demanded and the noise in the room immediately died down. Tony was aware of every set of eyes that was now looking at him, and could only guess that they were wondering why he was entertaining this theory. Sure, to the average person it didn't make much sense, but they hadn't seen how Steve had been acting—how this couldn't _be_ anything normal. Which, by process of elimination, left only the abnormal.

Tony ignored their collective confusion and focused on the doctor's conference screen, motioning for him to continue. In the next second, he could feel the room's attention following suit.

Onscreen, the doctor blinked, as if surprised that someone believed him, but recovered quickly, cleared his throat, and asked, "All this started when Captain Rogers was stabbed with the staff, that wasn't carbon-based, right?"

Tony and Bruce nodded.

"Perhaps he's having a reaction to whatever the staff is made of."

"None of us are experiencing symptoms," Alhambra pointed out.

"None of you had the staff in direct contact with your skin or bloodstream."

"How would that even work?" Tony asked but the question died as soon as it left his lips. If Steve's symptoms were really due to the alien tech, there wasn't a single one of them that could answer.

"Can we see his brain scans?" someone in the far corner asked, and within the next few seconds, three images were projected off the table. It was clear even to Tony that Steve's brain was lighting up in regions that shouldn't be in use for such a simple scan.

"Some sort of alien infection?" a female scientist suggested from the other side of the room.

"Or an alien itself," the crazy-haired doctor stated.

Tony felt physically ill. If his voice quavered when he spoke next though, no one was cruel enough to mention it. "Go on."

"Carlton Drake has this idea about symbiotic life forms," the doctor continued. It was telling that he didn't need to explain that Drake was the CEO of the Life Foundation, a genetics company based in San Francisco, and that no one in the room needed to ask for an explanation. "I thought he was way out of his depth, but the relationship he hypothesizes would fit this situation." The doctor looked up. "Your notes say that Captain Rogers hasn't been himself at all since his injury. It's possible the staff itself was home to a life-form we don't yet understand, and when Captain Rogers was stabbed with it, it picked a new host."

"The staff could be the alien life form," one of the earlier dissenters said slowly. "If we really are talking aliens here, anything is possible."

"We checked the staff," Alhambra cut in. "Multiple times. It's intact."

Onscreen, the crazy-haired doctor shrugged. "Like I said, we're way out of my depth. I'm just throwing out a possibility."

A white-haired man sprang up from his seat before anyone could respond. "Mr. Stark, I do believe we've entertained this lunacy long enough. May we please return to diagnosing what earthly issues are plaguing Captain Rogers?"

Tony nodded, then stood up himself. "I have to go," he said. Then, almost as an after-thought, he turned to Bruce. "You got this, right?"

Bruce nodded, though his expression bordered on confused.

Tony turned back to the room. "Thank you all for taking time out of your day to join us. I look forward to seeing what you all come up with."

Once in the hallway, Tony made a beeline for the nearby classrooms, which he knew would be empty at this late hour. After locking the door, he slid to the ground, breathing hard.

He'd done it. By cauterizing Steve's wound, he'd trapped whatever it was inside Steve. Nothing else—nothing Earthly—made sense. Nothing he knew of could exhibit that control over that distance without direct visuals. Nothing else could have complete control over a body's actions and override their fundamental principles.

Tony's stomach lurched and it took every fiber of his being working in unison to keep him from seeing his lunch again.

"Are you alright, sir?" JARVIS asked from Tony's watch.

Tony could only rest his head against his knees and focus on his breathing, which was running more and more ragged with each passing second.

"I am dialing Miss Potts."

Tony's head jerked up, but before he could object, Pepper had already picked up.

"Tony? What's wrong?"

He was shaking so badly his teeth were chattering. He couldn't have answered her if he wanted to.

_He'd done it. It was his fault._

"JARVIS, get his suit. Send him to me."

"No," Tony finally forced out.

"'No' what, honey? I need you to talk to me."

"I did it."

"Did what?"

"Trapped the symbiote inside Steve."

"What?" She recovered quickly. "Tony, I'm sure you di—"

"I did." Then, after a beat, he added, "It's all my fault, Pep."

"Tony, I'm very confused, but I know you well enough to know you didn't do it intentionally." There was some shifting in the background, then the sound of a chair screeching backward. "I'm coming to you. Stay there."

As much as Tony wanted to protest, he couldn't.

* * *

By the time Pepper arrived, Barnes had texted that Steve was out of surgery and could be moved back to the Tower after post-op. Though actually moving him without being tracked would be quite the act, the Tower, specifically the Hulk's playroom, was the safest place for Steve until they could figure out what was going on. With only a few staff on hand, who would be limited to the lower floors, the Tower itself posed the least amount of collateral damage if the situation turned nasty.

Tony managed to unlock the classroom door when Pepper arrived, then filled her in on his realization while she held him close.

"Are you sure it's a symbiote?" Pepper asked when he was finished. Her one hand didn't stop moving up and down his back, where it was making large, soothing circles.

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Tony said. "It's the same conclusion all those brains are going to come up with too, eventually. It's just going to take time." His throat felt tight as he said, "All this happened because of me, Pep."

"Tony, you saved Steve's life. You didn't know the staff was alien. You didn't know part of it—"

"But what did I save it for? For this? Steve wouldn't want this. He tried to assassinate the President. And he was almost successful!"

"You're right," Pepper said, causing Tony to look up sharply at her. "Steve wouldn't want this. But I also know that he's friends with two of the smartest men on the planet, who won't stop until they can figure out how to get that symbiote out of his head." She stopped rubbing his back and moved her hands to his cheeks, forcing him to look at her. "You, Bruce, and whoever else you need to assemble can figure this out. You just have to give yourself a chance."

"What if we can't?"

Pepper shook her head. "I don't believe that's an option."

She pulled him in close, one more time, and ran her fingers through his hair. "You can do this, Anthony Stark. But you need to get out of this room and start."

Tony pulled in a deep breath through his nose, which sent a stabbing pain down his throat. The increased oxygen did the job though and steadied his system.

"Ready?" Pepper asked, her words a little more than a breath on his ear.

Tony nodded as he finally pulled back.

Pepper ran her hand gently along his bruised cheekbone, then set her mouth in a determined line. "Give it hell."

* * *

**Any guesses on who the crazy-haired doctor is? Hint: it's more a pop culture reference (think: meme) than an existing MCU character. [Edit: apparently this man doesn't have a doctorate in real life, but I am not changing the story to reflect this. His alternate MCU personality has a doctorate and is well-respected in his field.]**

**Thanks for reading (and for the wonderful reviews)! They are making my day!**


	15. Chapter 15

Outside conference room six, Tony paused to spray the back of his aching throat again. Just like before, within seconds, the sharp knifing sensation had been reduced to a dull throb.

He and Pepper had talked a little more before she'd been called back into the office for an APAC investor meeting, mostly discussing the public relations aspect of today's events, which included Tony's suggestion that Garcetti should go on record and say that the man who attacked him, though he bore a remarkable resemblance to Steve Rogers, was not in fact Steve Rogers.

That was all Pepper had let Tony say before she stated that he needed to let those who did this for a living handle it, and that he had far too much on his plate already.

"You'll call me when you get a chance," she had said, not leaving room for argument.

"Yes, honey," Tony had replied. He'd kissed her, then walked her to the elevator and waited with her until it had arrived.

Now, back outside the conference room, he checked his phone for any updates from the team, but found none. After setting a reminder to check in with everyone after this, he took a deep breath and entered the conference room.

Unlike earlier, the room was totally empty, save Bruce and the crazy-haired doctor, who was still video-conferenced in. Well, at least Tony assumed he was a doctor. He hadn't personally vetted everyone Maria had gathered. It didn't really matter though since, whatever his credentials, this man was the only one who had provided the answers to their questions.

"Where's everyone else?" Tony asked as he crossed the room to where Bruce was sitting.

"I thanked them for their time and asked them to report back with any new findings tomorrow morning," Bruce explained. "And yes, we made sure they all remembered they'd signed an NDA." He looked at Tony then said, "I can't believe I'm about to say this but there's only one explanation that makes sense."

"The symbiote."

Bruce nodded.

"So what do we do? How do we get it out of Steve?"

"I don't know," the crazy-haired man said, looking up from a manual in front of him. "Drake would probably, though."

"So let's get him in here."

"We've been trying to reach him for the past hour," Bruce said. "It appears he doesn't want to be contacted."

"JARVIS, keep trying."

"Always, sir."

"So what else can you tell me about the symbiote, Doctor…"

"Tsoukalos." He didn't correct Tony on his title, so for now, Tony was going to assume he really was a doctor.

"Only what I've read," Tsoukalos continued. "A true symbiote can't live on its own, which might be why Ste—Captain Rogers—has been acting so strangely. The symbiote could be perceiving Captain Rogers' normal events as things that would threaten its new home."

"It could explain why Steve freaked out about the first round of scans," Bruce said. "The symbiote was worried it would be discovered."

"And it explains how strangely he's been acting," Tsoukalos added. "From my understanding, Captain Rogers' body would know the symbiote was there, and would be trying to get rid of it, much like white blood cells do for an infection."

"That would explain why he's been so tired," Bruce said.

That was the exact moment Tony realized that Bruce and Tsoukalos had discussed this before Tony had arrived. "What about his personality changes?"

"The symbiote could have taken more control," Tsoukalos replied. "For what purpose, I'm not totally sure."

"To kill the President, clearly."

"Yes, but why? President Garcetti is not a threat to Captain Rogers, or his and the symbiote's relationship."

Before Tony could chime in with Natasha's theory about the anti-alien law, his phone chirped.

"They're ready to move Steve," he reported after skimming the text from Barnes. Then he turned back to the screen. "Get the next flight to Manhattan, Dr. Tsoukalos," he ordered. "SI will pay for it all. We're going to need you."

Tsoukalos nodded. "I'm on my way." Then, his screen blinked off.

"We're not crazy for believing this, right?" Bruce asked, voicing the question that had been bouncing around Tony's brain.

"Sometimes the simplest explanation makes the most sense."

"None of this is simple," Bruce countered as they rose to their feet and walked out of the room.

"But it explains everything. And that has to count for something."

* * *

There was an odd sense of déjà vu in heading up to the hospital's helipad. The feeling disappeared as quickly as it arrived when there were no other Avengers besides Barnes up there. Bruce had peeled off at the elevator, having been asked to help escort Steve up to the helipad. Clearly, and rightfully so, the hospital wanted a little more security in case Steve woke up.

"How's the team?" Tony asked Barnes. The former Soldier had washed the blood off his face, but his nose, now straight, was swelling rather impressively into his eye sockets, giving him a squinty and suspicious look.

"They'll be back in the Tower once they're cleared. Coulson is making sure they're getting all the attention they need."

Tony nodded, then turned his attention to the other side of the helipad where the elevator doors were sliding open and Steve was being wheeled out. His gurney was surrounded by three hospital staff, Bruce, and three armed security guards.

Steve didn't look a whole lot better than he had in the operating theater, but was secured by a great deal more restraints, which ran from his feet all the way up to his forehead. In fact, the only spaces that weren't wrapped in thick, reinforced bands were those that had pads of gauze covering them.

Tony heard a low growl emanating from Barnes' direction and preemptively reached for the set of fully-functioning Iron Man bracelets Pepper had brought. Fortunately, the sound was Barnes' only outward objection to the situation. He stood stiff as a board, lips pursed tightly together but expression completely blank, as Steve was wheeled past them.

"How is he?" Tony asked the sandy-haired man, who was clearly in charge, while he and his team pushed Steve into the quinjet and secured the gurney to the floor.

"We've treated his wounds and got him started on fluids and his usual nutrients to replace what he's lost the past few days."

"Prognosis?" Bruce asked.

"Full recovery." _Physically_. Though the last word hadn't been spoken, it hung in the air around them like a dark cloud.

Tony didn't have time to spiral on that now. "When will he come around?"

"He's still on the dosage you recommended for the surgery," the sandy-haired man replied. "He'll be fine for the short trip, but you need to wean him off of them as soon as possible to avoid kidney damage."

Tony nodded. "Thank you."

While he and Bruce had been conversing with the staff, Barnes had made his way to the cockpit and begun the pre-flight procedures. Even though he was out of sight, Tony had no doubt Barnes had heard every word.

"Should you really be flying?" Tony asked him once the staff had left. It was a fair concern, considering Barnes' eyes were on their way to swelling closed.

He heard Barnes suck in a breath, and prepared himself for a (albeit verbal) fight. But then, to Tony's surprise, Barnes just said, "I plan on letting JARVIS do most of it."

Before Tony could comment, Bruce started walking toward the head of the quinjet. "Why don't you let me fly? I'm sure Steve could use a familiar presence back there."

Barnes stared up at Bruce for a long moment then nodded. "Sure," he said, standing up and spinning the seat to face Bruce. "Thanks," he added as he made his way to the back of the quinjet.

He sat down beside Steve and, after a second, reached out and laid his hand over what was free of Steve's fingers.

"Ready to get out of here?" Bruce asked a moment later.

He didn't wait for an answer before lifting the quinjet into the air.

* * *

_This was absolutely ridiculous,_ Dr. Jane Alhambra thought as transpo delivered the staff from its holding block to her lab. She and her staff had already gone over it with a fine-tooth comb. There were no dings or chips that they could see in the material.

And yet here she was, about to redo all her previous examinations, just because of something one man—at this point, she wasn't even sure he was a doctor—had said.

"Scan, Emily," she ordered the computer that ran the holotable the staff was resting on. She waited the requisite three minutes then said, "Identify any missing pieces."

"None, Doctor."

This was ridiculous. Tony Stark and Bruce Banner had had the staff too and they hadn't noticed anything this obvious.

"Magnify to 1500x," Alhambra said. Immediately a hologram of the staff floated above the table and zoomed into the desired percentage. Alhambra swished her hands to the left, which moved the focus down the staff, until she was staring at the corkscrew. From there, she looked at every square inch of the image from the tip to the handgrip.

There was nothing missing, which meant no chips, dings, or shards to get trapped inside Captain Rogers, causing this _ridiculous_ symbiote theory.

_The staff could be the alien life form, _one of the doctors in the room had said.

"Emily, disable cameras."

"Dr. Alhambra, I am not—"

"Disable now. Override, Alpha 32 Beta. Alhambra, Jane B."

There was a moment, then Emily announced it had been done.

"Total lockdown, nothing in or out until my override code is spoken."

"Yes, Dr. Alhambra."

After hearing the thick plates slide over the lab's door, Alhambra pulled on a biohazard suit, complete with private oxygen supply, before she walked over to the nearby bench where she fetched a variety of sharp instruments from screwdrivers to scalpels, and a lighter.

She laid them out on the holotable then poked the 'record' button on her phone, which was propped up on the adjacent bench.

Starting with the lighter, Alhambra held the flame under the corkscrew, all the while monitoring any changes in the status of the room, or the staff, which was still magnified above.

After five minutes and two hand cramps, there was no change that either she or Emily detected, so Alhambra shook out her hands and moved on to the blades. It was harder than she thought to score the corkscrew, but she was finally successful when she used both hands and brought the scalpel down from overhead with all her strength.

She scrambled to the other side of the room, breathing hard, and waited. Even from her position, it was easy to see the slight dent in the corkscrew's tip.

Then, she waited, and waited, and waited.

At first, it happened too slowly for her to notice, but then, she realized the gouge wasn't as deep as it had been.

"Emily, confirm that the staff is healing itself."

"I believe that is what you would call it, yes."

"Reinstate cameras, keep lockdown activated, and call Tony Stark."

* * *

When Steve woke, he was still in the dark room. His head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, but as that stimulus began to fade, he realized he could feel his body again. He lurched unsteadily to his feet and immediately crashed into the glimmering wall as both the new wounds on his legs and abdomen screamed in pain and his brain struggled to keep him upright and balanced.

It only took him a moment to recover before he began throwing himself at the glimmering wall in frustration and anger.

He remembered everything: taking out his team, trying to kill Garcetti, killing the Secret Service agents and Garcetti's advisors, goading Tony into shooting him. It churned his stomach to think about all of it, and what could have happened if Tony hadn't done what he'd done. Who knows what other damage his body would have inflicted?

Unlike before, the wall was hard and unmoving and he did more damage to his shoulder and side than to the shiny surface. He threw his entire body against it one final time before sliding down beside it, breathing hard and pressing one hand to his abdomen, which was now burning fiercely. He looked down to see blood spotting the gauze wrapped thickly around his waist.

The room shifted slightly, not enough to disorient Steve but enough to pull his attention back to the wall. First, the wall showed only darkness, but then Steve began to see quick flashes of a clear-walled space. It took him a moment to realize that, outside the dark room, his body was slowly waking up. Steve pushed himself into the wall as hard as he could manage, but when that still had no impact on his body, he resigned himself to watching his body blink a few times, but remain supine.

As his body continued to wake, Steve was able to see that it was in a clear containment unit of sorts, set in a larger, unoccupied space. He didn't recognize the setting, but he wasn't exactly getting the entire picture between his body's quick blinks.

A door on the far side of the space, outside the containment unit, opened and Tony and Bucky walked in. Steve scrambled up from his seat and pressed himself against the wall, as if that would grant him a better look at his friends. They were both bloodied and battered, but breathing. He could only hope that was true for the rest of the team.

He felt his body rise, slowly and jerkily, into a standing position.

"Get out of him," Tony all but growled as he came to a stop on the other side of the clear containment unit. Beside him, Bucky just glared, looking equally deadly, and despite the awfulness of the entire situation, Steve felt hope creep into his chest. He knew the two of them would stop at nothing to figure this out.

"Let us out," Steve's body said, and Steve started slightly as he didn't recognize his voice; it was low and gravelly and no longer his own.

His body then stalked over to the wall, only stopping when Steve's nose was practically touching the glass. From this distance, Steve could see the true damage to his friends' faces: Tony's bruised throat and cheek, and Bucky's clearly broken nose.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as his concern for the rest of his friends, who didn't have the luxury of suits or superhealing, ratcheted up until he felt nauseous.

"So you can try to kill the President again?" Tony scoffed, drawing Steve's attention back to the conversation at hand. "I don't think so."

"He doesn't want usss," Steve's body hissed.

"Who doesn't?"

"Garcetti." Steve's body spat at the wall between him and his friends. It hit directly between Tony and Bucky and began slowly dripping down to the floor. "I can see it in _his _memories. The papers Garcetti wants to sign. He doesn't want my…" Steve could feel his brain straining to find the word his body was looking for, "…_kind_ on Terran."

"So you're going to kill him to prove we should roll out the welcome wagon when more of your kind bang on our door?"

"Yesss. It is the only way."

Tony just shook his head while Bucky's glare intensified. "Never gonna happen," Tony stated, his tone a touch too fake to be genuine. "But I'll make you a deal: you get away from Steve and we'll forget this whole thing ever happened."

"No."

"Tough draw, cos you're not leaving this cube until Steve is himself again."

"He will never be himssself. Too much damage has been done."

Inside the dark room, Steve scowled up at the glimmering wall, suspecting that was nothing more than bravado; his injuries aside, he still felt fine, still had his memories, and had control of his real body.

The words though, briefly hit their mark. Bucky's expression hadn't changed in the slightest, but Tony's eyes widened slightly before he could school on a face of indifference. "You're not leaving until Steve is himself again," he repeated.

Steve's body grinned. Then, without warning, it pulled Steve's hand back and smashed it into the glass.

* * *

The reinforced walls of the Hulk's playroom didn't so much as crack. The utter shattering sound though was horrific, and Tony felt his last meal try to make an escape.

"Let usss out," not-Steve roared as he reared back to strike the wall again. His hand was definitely broken, judging by the unnatural peaks now dotting the back of it.

It was hard to imagine someone looking so intimidating in only pajama bottoms and with massive amounts of gauze wrapped around his torso, but somehow Steve was managing. It was mostly due to his eyes, which were hard chips of silver and the polar opposite of the warm blue they were used to.

"You kill him, you die," Barnes ground out. Tony wasn't totally sure whether it was because Barnes would be doing the killing, or whether that Steve—the host—dying meant whatever was riding shotgun would die too.

"You want to save him, you'll let usss go," Steve's body said.

"There's no 'us'," Tony snapped. "We just want him."

"We're a package dealll." Steve's body punched the wall again, making the valleys in the back of his hand worse.

"Stop that," Barnes growled, and the air practically vibrated with the force of his words.

"Then let usss go."

"Not going to happen," retorted Tony as he crossed his hands over his chest.

"Then we'll continue. I hear he can do this all day." Steve's face twisted into a violent sneer as he lowered his broken hand to his abdomen and began to push against the pack of gauze covering his repulsor burn. His face was totally impassive and his breathing didn't change from its slow, steady rhythm.

"We're not letting you out," Tony said as the bandages started turning red.

"Then he will sufferrr!"

Suddenly, Steve's eyes switched to blue and he slumped bonelessly to his knees. His forehead knocked against the glass wall as if his neck could no longer support the weight.

"Steve!" Tony and Barnes raced forward and dropped to the ground in front of their friend. Barnes' hands were splayed on the glass and, for the briefest of seconds, Tony saw the agony in his eyes.

Then Steve looked up. His blessedly blue eyes were full of pain, but his expression was steady. "Don'…" he slurred. His head lolled to the right, and he just managed to pull his forehead off the wall. "Don'… giv'in."

"You gotta fight this, Steve!" Barnes practically pleaded, but it was too late. The silver snapped down and like a puppet whose strings had just been pulled, Steve jerked back into a completely vertical position, leaving Tony and Barnes scrambling to do the same.

"Let us go," Steve's body repeated with a stony expression.

Tony shook his head, refusing to give ground. "Get out of him, and we will."

"Togetherrr," Steve's body hissed. Without warning, his shoulder jerked back at an unnatural angle, and a harsh crack echoed throughout the room.

Tony had to swallow hard to keep the revulsion off his face as Steve's arm now hung about four inches below where it should be. Beside him, Bucky's breathing hitched, but his expression didn't outwardly change.

They needed a new plan, before there wasn't anything left of Steve to save.

"JARVIS," Tony said, looking up at the ceiling. In the next second, smoke began wafting in through the high ceiling vents. For once, Steve's body looked something other than calm and collected as he dove under the containment unit's metal bed, which was bolted to the floor. He needn't have bothered though; the Hulk-strength knockout gas quickly saturated the room until Tony and Bucky could no longer see in.

A few achingly long minutes later, JARVIS reported that Steve had lost consciousness.

"Get medical in there," Tony ordered. "Full protective gear. Tranq only."

Then he turned to Barnes who had lost a few shades of color in his face. "C'mon," Tony said as he walked out of the room. "We've got work to do."


	16. Chapter 16

**I said it was going to get worse before it gets better. This chapter is definitely worse. I promise you the "better" will come, though. Just stick with me a little longer.**

* * *

"What's the plan?" Barnes asked as soon as he and Tony were in the hallway outside the containment wing.

"I need to think," Tony replied. A lot had happened very quickly and he needed time to process it all… and to figure out the answer to Barnes' question. Obviously, the problem statement was getting the symbiote out of Steve, but exactly _how _they were going to do that, Tony had no idea. He, Bruce and Tsoukalos had been researching symbiotes throughout the day and how they operated, and were still only beginning to crack the surface of all the theories and internet folklore.

"Can I help?"

Tony almost snapped back that Barnes could definitely not help him think, but he stopped himself, knowing Barnes was asking if there was anything he could do to help free Steve. At least, that's what Tony thought he meant. He could have been misreading the entire situation.

"No," he said, and for some reason, that's when Tony really stopped to look at Barnes. His eyes were still puffy from displaced swelling from his broken nose, but the swelling as a whole seemed to be decreasing. Apparently his bastardized serum was speeding up his healing, just not as fast as it did for Steve. Barnes was still holding himself stiffly, as if every part of his body hurt, which was a sentiment Tony felt deep in his bones.

The next words out of Tony's mouth surprised the hell out of him. "When was the last time you slept?"

He clearly wasn't the only one who was surprised, because it took Bucky a second to answer. "The night before we left for D.C."

It was only then that Tony realized he had no idea what day or time it was. It had been dark when they had brought Steve back to the Tower, but some time had passed since then. He consulted his watch and determined that it was 11:37 PM on Thursday, almost thirty-two hours after the Avengers were supposed to report to D.C for the security briefing. In all that time, Tony hadn't slept that much either, but even he had unwillingly crashed for a few hours on the couch in his lab while he, Bruce and Tsoukalos worked.

"Go grab a few." It wasn't quite an order, but Tony was hoping there wasn't a lot of room for argument. There were already three of them working on the symbiote lore, which was probably two too many for the amount of information that was available, and Tony couldn't think of anything else to delegate. As Barnes opened his mouth to argue, Tony said, "we're going to need everyone at full strength when we figure this out."

Barnes must have seen the sense in those words since he nodded slowly. "You call me when you have something." In line with the rest of their conversation, it was phrased as a statement, not a question.

"I promise."

With that, Tony headed down the common lab, where Bruce and Tsoukalos were waiting.

"Did you see?" he asked as he dropped into his second-favorite chair. DUM-E quickly rolled over, carrying a smoothie and his throat spray on a metal tray. Now that he knew exactly how much time had passed since his injury, Tony felt a small wave of frustration rise at his throat not being better. His voice was still gravelly and low, and talking felt like he was swallowing razor blades. He knew he wasn't resting it like he was supposed to, but he'd brushed Dr. Han's advice away, promising himself that as soon as he figured this out, he'd rest it as much as the doctor wanted.

Bruce nodded. "I did."

"What do you think?"

"The symbiote thinks it's safe in Captain Rogers," Tsoukalos said from behind Tony, by the coffee nook. "As long as that's the status quo, it has no reason to leave."

"Steve's hurt pretty bad," Tony countered as he sprayed his throat then sipped at DUM-E's smoothie. Slowly but surely, the combination of the two again numbed the ache and made the rest of the conversation feasible. "Repulsor burns, the Hulk-strength tranq, and now a broken hand and dislocated shoulder. It's hardly making for a habitable environment." He paused for a second, then added, "_It_'s actually doing most of the recent damage, which hardly seems like the kind of thing it'd want to do if it wants to stick around."

If Tsoukalos was offended by Tony's sharp words, he didn't show it. He wasn't as much of an expert on symbiotes as the team had been hoping, but given that he was open to the idea, it was easier to assign him an even share of the work than to convince someone else that this was a real possibility. "It's acting this way because you won't release Captain Rogers."

"If it keeps acting this way, there won't be much of Captain Rogers to release."

"Tony…" Bruce warned.

Tony made a face, but didn't outwardly apologize. He did though recalibrate; Tsoukalos was just here to help.

Tsoukalos just took a seat at the table and distributed two of the three mugs he'd been carrying to the Avengers. "I suspect, and Dr. Banner agrees, that the supersoldier serum is the reason the symbiote is so hesitant to leave. To achieve full control, as it's done, should be incredibly taxing to a normal body. The serum is repairing both that damage and the damage it's inflicting while you refuse to free it."

"It's not though," Tony said, which was entirely true. The minor damage Steve had accrued during the helipad fight—cuts, bruises, and the like—should have been well on their way to healed. Yet, in the Hulk's Playroom, they seemed to be as fresh and colorful as they had been Wednesday when Steve had been in surgery.

Tony and Bruce knew that the serum could only do so much, and that when it got overloaded with a massive number of injuries, it had to prioritize the most severe; in this case, it would seem to be focusing on whatever damage the symbiote was inflicting while continuing to control Steve, and leaving the minor damage to heal on its own. Unfortunately, the "minor" damage in this case also included the repulsor burns, which hadn't even started to close before Steve had reopened the one on his abdomen. If the symbiote didn't understand the inherent limit of Steve's superhealing, it was going to open the door to a host of other problems.

"The symbiote might not understand that," Bruce said, while Tony was coming to much of the same conclusion. "If all it has is memories of Steve's accelerated healing, it might think it can push indefinitely. Which makes Steve's body a far superior home than the rest of ours."

"Well we can't get rid of the serum," Tony said as he rubbed at the ache building behind his left eyebrow, "so how else do we make Steve's body uninhabitable?"

He was clearly hoping for an idea, especially since Tsoukalos and Bruce had been conferring while he and Barnes were talking with Steve, but all he heard was twin notes of silence. They weren't even the good kind of 'working' silence, where an idea would soon follow. They were the utterly confused, 'I have no idea' silence, which was getting more and more concerning as time drew on.

"Still no word from Drake?" he asked, and received two head shakes in return.

"I am still trying, sir," JARVIS reported.

Tony exhaled slowly, trying to tamp down on the frustration building inside him. "We need to figure out how to make Steve's body less exciting for the symbiote," he said, in case somehow repeating the task at hand would get more ideas flowing. "It likes the serum, but there has to be something else, something that would drive it away."

"What are we talking about here?" Tsoukalos asked. "Smells? Sights? Tastes?"

The briefest stirrings of an idea shot its way into Tony's brain. "I need to check on something," he said, as he abruptly stood up. "About that. I might have an idea."

It was only due to their many years working together that Bruce didn't question or ask to be brought along. "We'll keep at our research," was all Bruce said. "See if we can find any links. Let's check back in an hour?" It was purposefully open-ended, to not increase the already high pressure of the whole situation.

"Sure." Tony shot Bruce a grateful look, then walked out of the lab, caught the closest elevator and rode it up to his floor. He bypassed the living area and headed for the master bedroom. In his massive master closet, he pushed past the suits and shoes until the back paneling came into view. He dropped his palm against the exact middle of the wall, which immediately turned clear. With a soft whirring, a beam of light travelled up and down his hand, reading his biometrics.

After a moment, a door in the back of the closet clicked open, revealing a small space that housed a massive, yet neatly stacked shelfing unit. The boxes lining the shelves were mostly things from his parents and his childhood, hidden away here so as to not make the gossip magazines. The box Tony was looking for today was high on a shelf in the back, and he had to find a stepladder from the living space to pull it down.

The box was filled with papers from his dad: some bound into notebooks, others flying around on loose leaf, magazines, or whatever he had on hand when inspiration struck. Tony carefully dug through the box until he found a small leather-bound notebook closed with a thin strap.

He gently untied the fraying leather, then dropped to the floor, and started to read.

* * *

"I know how to fix him," Tony announced hours later, as he and Bruce walked into the conference room on the common floor where the remaining Avengers were gathered. Tony had texted them all an hour ago, after running his epiphany past Bruce and Dr. Tsoukalos. While they opposed the plan on the basis of what it meant for Steve, after having JARVIS run some simulations and reviewing the findings themselves, they had both agreed Tony's plan was the most reasonable path forward. Now, Bruce dropped into the closest available seat, while Dr. Tsoukalos remained in the common lab, having been asked to sit this meeting out. "But you're not going to like it."

This was also the first time Tony had seen the rest of the team in over thirty-six hours. He wasn't proud of it, but he hadn't exactly had a lot of free time in between all that had happened. To be fair though, he had been checking in over text messages and occasionally a video chat, but the words in the messages and the quality of the video call paled in comparison to the sight before him.

_How_? Clint asked. Since his jaw was wired together until the simple fracture healed, he was using his left hand to sign while his right pressed an ice pack to the side of his face. What little skin Tony could see around the instant ice pack was brightly colored, splotchy and assuredly very painful.

Clint's sentiment was quickly echoed by Barnes, who looked like he'd caught maybe an hour of sleep since Tony had last seen him. The swelling in his face was continuing to diminish but he was still holding himself with great care.

Unfortunately, he seemed to be the least injured of the rest of the Avengers.

Sam was looking at Tony but was having a hard time keeping his eyes focused. His head kept slipping forward slightly, like his neck forgot it was holding it up, before he managed to catch himself. There was a gnarly row of stitches just over his ear, more visible now that his hair had been totally shaved around it.

"Should he be here?" Tony asked, caught off-guard by Sam's condition. He'd known Sam had a concussion, but the severity had somehow not been previously mentioned.

"Probably not," Natasha replied from the other end of the table, where she was propping her leg up on the chair next to her. Her knee was wrapped in a metal brace and her face was dotted with an impressive array of colors. She was holding an ice pack to her ribs, but her breathing still sounded pained and hitched.

_Agreed_, Clint signed.

"You try getting him to go, though," she finished, tipping her head slightly at Sam and wincing.

"'m fine," Sam slurred before propping his elbow against the table and resting his head in his hand. His eyes closed slightly, which allowed Tony to see the lines of pain etched around them.

Jesus.

"How, Stark?" Barnes snapped, drawing Tony back to the task at hand.

"It likes to be warm." With that, Tony pointed to the wall behind him, onto which JARVIS projected a still of Steve walking around the Tower in a gaudy and over-the-top sweater adorned with his shield.

"Case 1: the ugly sweaters." Tony turned slightly so he could see both the screen and his teammates. "I bought him that as a joke. He's never actually worn it. I'm pretty sure he hates it."

"It could just be laundry day," Natasha said tiredly as she shifted the ice pack to the other side of her ribs.

"Sure. If it was just that day. Every day I saw him for the past two weeks, he was bundled up." Tony snapped his fingers and JARVIS quickly flipped through a slideshow of security footage stills of Steve in the common areas of the Tower. To Tony's point, he was always wearing long-sleeves and long pants, sometimes more than one layer's worth.

"'s winter," Sam slurred. "'s cold."

"If it was just that, sure. But let's look at Case 2: Adoption Day." The slideshow shifted to a still of Steve from last Saturday, moments before the team needed to leave for the event. He was hunched over slightly and staring wide-eyed at the snow outside the picture window in the common room. "We'll come back to his attire later, but all of us know how much he loves animals. The only reason he didn't go was because he was cold."

"Or because he almost died a week ago and needed a day off," Bruce said. Tony wrenched his head around and shot Bruce a withering look.

"They're going to say it anyway," Bruce retorted. "I'm just getting it out of the way."

"Look at his eyes," Tony said, making a circular motion with his hand. JARVIS responded by zooming in the footage to focus on Steve's slightly panicked expression. "He had the same look on his face while we were watching _The Witcher _earlier, but only after it started snowing. He was fine until then."

Tony pushed his index finger and thumb together and JARVIS returned the still to its normal magnification. "He's also wearing two extremely heavy jackets and isn't even breaking a sweat in the 74 degree Tower."

_It _was_ kinda weird_, Clint signed, which Tony needed JARVIS to translate since Clint was now outside of his elementary signing abilities. _He lives for those adoption events_.

There were no more objections, so Tony motioned for JARVIS to flip to the third still, which showed Steve refusing the smoothie from Barnes early in his recovery.

"Food," Tony then stated. "Steve hasn't drunk a single cold smoothie, eaten ice cream, or so much as touched anything else directly out of the freezer since his injury."

"Maybe the ingredients didn't taste good to him," Bruce chimed in. This time his voice was a little higher to let Tony know he was following a script and not really objecting.

Tony snapped his fingers again and the screen flipped through various stills of Steve eating every ingredient Barnes had thrown into his uncharacteristically fruity smoothies over the past two weeks. "The only thing he doesn't eat is the ice."

It might have just been Tony's lack of sleep, but it felt like the team was warming up to his hypothesis.

"And my final point." He snapped one last time and a picture of the thermostat in Steve's room appeared on the wall.

"90 degrees?" Barnes read in disbelief.

"His room is at ninety degrees. I know he was frozen and all, but he's never had it this high before. Even after he moved in." Tony looked over at the screen and a line chart appeared, with dates on the x-axis and temperature on the y-axis. Steve's room remained around 80 degrees year-round, until the day he'd gotten home from the hospital last week, when it had slowly risen up to 90 degrees and stayed that way ever since.

It took a minute, but then Barnes must have figured out where Tony was headed, since his face paled, which only made his swollen eyes stand out more. "No."

"It's the only way."

"Wha's?" Sam slurred without opening his eyes, and Tony couldn't help but again think that he needed to be back in medical.

"We need to make his body uninhabitable for the symbiote," Tony explained. "We need to make him cold."

On the other side of the table, Natasha let out a sharp inhale, but didn't vocalize a response. In direct opposition, Clint's fingers were flying, translated by JARVIS to ask, _How cold, exactly_?

"As cold as it takes for the symbiote to leave," Tony replied.

"Jesus." Barnes scrubbed his flesh hand across his forehead while a myriad of emotions crossed his face.

Tony walked over to Barnes and sat across from him. "I need you to give me the okay," he said softly.

Barnes' gaze snapped up. "You can't ask me to do that."

"I have to. I need someone who knows Steve better than any of us, to tell me that's what he'd want." Sure, Bruce and Dr. Tsoukalos had agreed that Tony's plan seemed to be their only option, but he needed that extra confirmation from Barnes, who had known Steve the longest, before they went ahead with the plan.

Barnes looked about a breath away from full-blown panic, but he pulled in a shallow inhale and stared up at the wall, which JARVIS had lined with all of Tony's evidence. "What do you think, JARVIS?" he asked.

"I agree with Sir. I believe our best chance of freeing Captain Rogers is lowering his body temperature to make it incongruent with the symbiote's wants."

"Will he survive, in his current condition?"

"It will depend on how long it takes the symbiote to leave."

Barnes blanched. "That's not good enough," he said after a moment. "I need to know what his chances are."

Tony threw open his hand and calculations and data from him, Bruce and Tsoukalos, overlapping and messy, appeared onscreen. Also featured was a picture of the page from his dad's notebook detailing his original notes and observations of the supersoldier serum. "If his body temp stays above 80, we should be able to save him."

_SHOULD!? _Clint signed and somehow, the stress translated just fine through JARVIS' mechanical tone.

"It's all I have."

Barnes was quiet for a long moment before he nodded. "I don't think we have a choice." He looked over at Tony. "Do it."

Tony nodded back, then stood up. "We'll get started right away."

* * *

Inside the dark room, Steve woke up shivering. He coughed, causing the aching in his chest to increase, then winced as he sucked icy air into his lungs.

His eyes flew open and he saw icicles hanging from what he presumed was the ceiling of the dark room. The floor was equally cold, so he forced himself into a sitting position, pulled his knees to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them to keep his body heat contained. It should have hurt the burns on his side and abdomen, but that pain was lost in the chill… and the impending panic.

What the hell was happening?

Outside the dark room, his body was waking up, also shivering. It was in the same clear-walled container as before, but the temperature of the container had dropped significantly too. As his body took stalk of its new injuries, Steve realized his body been relieved of the pajama pants, and had been left only in boxers and the gauze holding bandages to his various wounds. His right arm was now in a sling—Steve didn't know why—his hand was in a cast—Steve didn't remember hurting that either—and there was an oxygen mask over his mouth that was puffing with each inhale, but had a slight aftertaste.

It took him a moment, but then Steve connected the dots. Whatever was controlling him clearly liked being warm—warmer than even Steve preferred normally—so his team was making his body cold, in hopes the thing would leave.

His body must have realized the same thing, for it threw off the oxygen mask and sling, lurched unsteadily to its feet and stumbled over to the clear wall. Tony was standing on the other side, trying to look stoic, but failing miserably. Behind him, Bucky was a totally blank slate. It was only the small shift of his eyes every so often that let Steve know Bucky was still in there, and that he hadn't reverted to his old Soldier ways.

"What is thissss?" his body hissed.

"One last time," Tony said, regaining some of his composure, "leave, or we'll make you."

"You'll killlll him."

It was Bucky who spoke, his expression never wavering. "So be it."

Whatever was controlling Steve must have realized that Bucky spoke the truth, for Steve's body began banging his fists, both injured and not, against the glass. Not only did the glass not shatter, but the temperature in the room dropped noticeably.

"There are punishments for not behaving," Tony explained.

Steve's body stopped banging on the clear containment wall, then stepped back and threw itself into it. The wall groaned with the impact but held steady. On the other side of the glass, Tony had taken a hurried step back but Bucky held his position, both impassive and resolute.

"It won't do any good," Bucky stated as the temperature in the containment unit dropped again.

Inside the dark room, Steve pulled himself into a tighter ball, his breath starting to hurt as it slid in and out of his lungs. His teeth were chattering and the icy wind was searing his eyes, but he didn't argue, didn't barter, didn't try to change his body's mind. He'd accepted his fate the moment he'd realized what Tony and Bucky's plan was.

_I don't blame you_, he thought, squeezing his eyes closed in concentration, hoping they'd somehow understand.

"You should," a voice came from the empty space above him. It startled Steve, since it was the first time whatever was controlling him had spoken to him directly.

"I don't," he gasped as his words were lost in the icy wind that was rapidly building in intensity. "You're the one who won't leave! You've brought this upon yourself!"

"No!" The exclamation was so strong, Steve swore he felt his brain vibrate inside his skull. "It's them!"

"Get out!" Steve commanded, dredging up every ounce of force left in his frozen body.

"Never."

* * *

Tony was painfully aware of every degree the room temperature dropped, and how that impacted Steve's body temperature. The container was down to about sixty degrees, with Steve's temperature hovering around ninety-seven.

Steve threw himself at the glass again, and the room's temperature dropped to fifty-five. Again, to fifty. Again, to forty-five.

Steve was now standing there, glaring at the two of them, his chest heaving with exertion. Then, he looked up at the ceiling and screamed. The sound was so unexpected yet so raw and agonized that Tony felt himself recoil. In all their history, in all Steve's injuries, he had never made a sound like that—even after the Triskelion, when he'd been all but dying. He grunted and panted and ground his teeth and swore like the soldier he was but didn't _ever_ scream.

"Soundproof, J," Tony ground out, barely audible over Steve's screams. As the sound from the containment unit cut out, Tony shot a quick glance at Barnes, who continued staring blankly at his friend; if Tony wasn't mistaken, though, he was a shade paler than before.

Undeterred, Steve's body continued to launch itself at the glass while its mouth remained open in a silent cry. With every collision, the temperature in the room dropped five degrees, but Steve's body didn't let up in the slightest.

The monitoring on the far wall showed Steve's internal temperature had just crossed ninety degrees; that was past hypothermic for a normal human, but Tony had seen Steve accidentally subjected to these conditions on an earlier mission, before Tony had redesigned his pitiful excuse for a suit, and Steve had come out fine. Hopefully the same would be true here, once the symbiote had left his body.

Hopefully.

On the other side of the glass, Steve's lips were tinged blue and he was exhaling clouds of steam. He might have even been shivering a little.

"Leave," Tony repeated, to which Steve just crashed into the glass harder and faster. The temperature dropped accordingly and, a few agonizingly long moments later, Steve started to slow down.

"Vital functions critical," JARVIS reported, and Tony felt a lump sink from his throat into his stomach.

"Keep going."

Steve was swaying on his feet, blinking owlishly at Tony and Barnes. Then, at a body temperature of eighty-two degrees, his eyes fluttered closed and he collapsed.

"Get out," Barnes growled, his voice raw with disuse.

Without warning, Steve's back arched and he began to convulse.

"Captain Rogers is having a seizure," JARVIS stated, even though that was abundantly clear.

Tony glanced over at Barnes, who didn't look away from his dying friend.

"Keep going," Tony repeated as his stomach knotted. Given the symbiote's reluctance to leave yesterday, he'd known they'd end up somewhere around here, but that didn't make it any easier to watch, or to not tell JARVIS to raise the temperature in the Playroom.

Blood began dripping out of Steve's ears, then his nose, and mouth, and red started to dot the bandages around his abdomen, neck, hip and thigh. His eyes rolled back, but the lids were still slightly open, revealing just the hint of white as his body continued to shake.

After another moment, Steve's eyes snapped open, all white, pupils not in sight, and something small and grey slid out of his ear. Steve's body spasmed one more time then crashed to the ground, limp.

"That better not be part of his brain," Barnes growled, barely audible at only a few feet away.

Before Tony could respond, the greyish blob, less than a quarter of an inch in size by JARVIS' estimations, began crawling away.

Tony waited until it was on the other side of the containment unit before making a motion with his hand. A dividing wall snapped down the middle of the unit, separating Steve from the thing that had been controlling him.

"Full scan, J."

The greyish blob flipped so it was facing Tony and Barnes, then it began throwing itself at the exterior wall separating them. It splattered itself into about a half-inch circle but did little damage to the reinforced wall. It threw itself backward, formed a tiny thin rod and tried again, this time cracking the clear wall slightly.

"It is gone, sir," JARVIS reported.

"Then destroy at will."

The temperature on Steve's side of the wall quickly rose to a normal temperature, while it continued to plummet on the symbiote's side. The symbiote's half of the unit began to vibrate, with what Tony assumed would have been shrieks if the sound had still been enabled. It threw itself again at the wall in its pointed shape, cracking the wall a bit more, but as it drew itself back for another blow, a laser shot out of the upper corner of the symbiote's side of the unit. The symbiote shifted gears and began racing around the room, trying to avoid the laser. A quick game of chase ensued, but eventually the laser caught up to the symbiote and sliced it into pieces. The various parts tried to coagulate, but couldn't in the sub-zero temperatures. They wiggled individually a few times, then went still.

In that same instant, Barnes stumbled forward and began fumbling with the lock on the door to Steve's half of the Playroom. "We need a doctor," he mumbled, while continuing to try and fail to input his passcode.

Before Tony could order an override, JARVIS slid open the door, sending Barnes stumbling into the room. "They are thirty seconds out, Sergeant."

The supersoldier crashed to the ground next to his friend and, without bothering to check for a pulse, started chest compressions.

"He's not breathing!" he shouted between presses.

Tony, who hadn't been far behind Barnes, began putting pressure on Steve's abdomen and thigh, which were bleeding the most heavily. He heard a resounding crack as Barnes pushed against Steve's ribs, and winced. Steve however didn't shift at all and Barnes' expression just turned murderous.

Then the doctors Tony had had on stand-by were flooding in. Taking over. Declaring Steve not breathing. Preparing the AED.

"Clear."

Steve's body arced off the floor before crashing back into it with a painful thud.

"Again."

No change.

"Again."

"Again."

"Again."

Then Steve's mouth fell open and he pulled in a small and shaky breath.

That was the last Tony saw of Steve before he was strapped to a gurney and whisked away to SHIELD's ED.


	17. Chapter 17

**A few quick notes: there are mild mentions of religion in this chapter. At a loss for what else to do, Bucky is going to pray for Steve. It's not super detailed, so if it's not your cuppa, you can just skip it. Also, there is one use of the f-word in the sixth paragraph, which may or may not describe how some of you feel about our own situation.**

**Thanks for all your support thus far! Cue the comfort and recovery, which, remember, are marathons, not sprints.**

* * *

_Life functions critical_, they'd said before sticking Steve full of needles.

_We can't explain it,_ they said of Steve's brain scans which looked more like burning wildfires than the ones Bucky had seen before.

_We don't know, _they said, when asked what Steve's chances were.

Steve had been moved back to Manhattan General after he'd crashed for a third time in SHIELD medbay. Now that he'd been stabilized, he was hooked up to more monitoring equipment than Bucky had ever seen in one place at once: a ventilator because he wasn't breathing on his own, dialysis because his kidneys had shut down, IVs full of nutrients and liquids to combat the fact that you could see Steve's ribs if you looked at his chest just right. No matter how many nutrients Steve had been given intravenously during his bouts of unconsciousness, it hadn't been enough to counteract the toll the symbiote was taking on his system, and the fact that he hadn't eaten much the first week of his recovery. Steve was thinner than Bucky had ever seen him, and his sickly pallor was bringing back memories Bucky would have been perfectly happy never remembering.

To top it all off, Steve was in fucking quarantine, as if whatever had happened to him was somehow contagious, and none of the Avengers had been cleared to sit with him. Undeterred, Bucky had been ready to tear through the double sliding doors and into Steve's room when Tony caught his metal arm. It throbbed painfully, from the plates Steve had dented during their fight, but Bucky didn't allow the expression to show on his face.

"You'll just make it worse," Tony said. "Steve can't afford that."

Bucky shrugged off Tony's grip with another bolt of pain, and stormed away before he said or did something he would later regret—or worse, that would get him kicked out of the ICU. If that happened, he had five pre-established routes that would bypass security and get him back here, but he didn't want to resort to them today, not when Steve's life was hanging in the balance.

Bucky wasn't sure _where_ he was walking, just that he _was_ walking, and breathing, and focusing on not tearing the whole ICU down to its studs.

When he came back to himself, he was in the main wing of the hospital, being given a healthy berth by the staff who were going about their everyday business. He oriented himself, noting the signs for the cafeteria off to his left, and the hallway back to the ICU on his right. Across from him however was a room Bucky usually avoided with a ten-foot pole.

After everything that had happened to him, Bucky wasn't sure he still believed. He hadn't really given it much thought over the last year, and the few times he'd dabbled back in it, no one seemed to have the answers he was looking for. He wasn't even sure if Steve believed anymore either. They hadn't talked about it, except for last Christmas when Bucky asked if Steve still attended midnight mass. The answer had been yes, and Bucky had had every intention of going along until the day of, which was a massively awful day from start to end, so Steve had ended up going by himself.

After all Bucky had done, he wasn't sure he wouldn't get smote by setting foot inside the chapel. But this whole situation was way outside of anything he'd ever experienced, so if it had the smallest chance of helping, he was willing to give it a shot.

Before he changed his mind, he crossed the hallway and entered the chapel. Thankfully, the ceiling didn't split open and he didn't dissolve in a bolt of lightning. In fact, he found it rather peaceful in the small room. There were four rows of pews, two on each side of an aisle, that ran up to a small altar, which had a cross hanging on the wall behind it.

Bucky walked down the aisle, fully aware of his soft footfalls in the utter silence, and sat in the closest pew. He pulled the kneeler away with his foot and had knelt before his mind had registered what his body was doing. It was obviously some latent muscle memory from his years attending church as a child.

It took a bit more effort to get his metal arm up so it could rest on the back of the pew in front of him. Each small motion sent a lance of pain through the damaged plates and into his shoulder. But he managed.

He then interlaced his fingers, which sent his injured arm ablaze again, and looked up at the cross. In that moment, he had no idea what to say. His brain ran the gamut of 'this was wrong', 'he shouldn't be here', 'he was tarnishing the space with his reputation', but eventually landed on the fact that this felt a tiny bit right.

So he stayed.

* * *

Tony was sitting next to Natasha outside Steve's quarantine unit when his phone rang.

He checked the Caller ID, saw it wasn't a saved number, then denied it. His phone had been ringing off the hook for the past three days with media requests: interviews, sound bytes, whatever. Though the Avengers' PR had made a statement that Captain America wasn't responsible for Wednesday's events, the public wasn't buying it; the fact that Steve hadn't been seen since his initial injury two weeks ago wasn't helping either. As the days had passed, the news cycles had only gotten more outlandish, spouting that Steve was secretly Hydra, Steve was a Red Hawk, he and the rest of the Avengers were anti-American, and more. The White House spokesperson, a mousy man who could somehow command a room, had even gone on record stating Captain America was not at fault, but the public could not be satiated. They'd seen the video, and they were out for blood.

"Press?" Natasha asked, as Tony slipped his phone back into his pocket.

He nodded, then returned to staring at Steve through the glass wall of his quarantine unit.

"Why don't you let me handle that?"

Tony looked over at her. "I've been informed they need to remain alive," he said dully.

Natasha didn't rise to the bait. "Let me help."

Tony didn't want to lose his already tenuous grip on the situation, but he was drowning beneath the sheer number of requests from the media; SI, whose stock price was oscillating like a kid on a sugar high; and, more importantly, the hospital staff who were double- and triple-checking his findings. While the intent was good, each new doctor was apparently incapable of reading the last doctor's report and wanted to talk to Tony about the data themselves. Needless to say, he was the type of exhausted no amount of sleep was going to fix.

"Okay." Tony tapped on his watch, then ordered, "Transfer all blocked calls to Natasha's phone."

"Yes, sir," JARVIS said.

"When was the last time you went home?" she asked, after JARVIS was finished.

"This morning?" He'd technically been at the Tower while figuring out how to get the symbiote out of Steve.

Natasha shot him an unimpressed look. "It's Saturday afternoon. Try again."

What? Tony looked down at his watch, and sure enough, she was right. Before he could spiral on where all that time had gone, Natasha cleared her throat, refocusing him on her question.

It took much longer than it should have for his brain to throw out, "Wednesday." Before Steve had tried to assassinate Garcetti. When they'd hoped he was just recovering more slowly than usual. Before they'd known what was really happening.

"You need to get some sleep," she said.

"I can't."

"You can, and you will." With great effort, she lifted herself from her seat, clanking slightly because of her knee brace. "You will go home right now. You will get at least five hours of sleep. You will shower and eat a meal that isn't from the freezer, and you will spend some time with Pepper. Am I making myself clear?"

Tony hated being mother-henned, especially by Natasha, and wanted nothing more than to turn her down… but he was so tired—past tired, actually, and close to not being able to see 'exhausted' in his rear view mirror—that he couldn't make his mouth form the words. His eyes felt like someone was rubbing sandpaper against them and his brain physically hurt when it was required to think. Perhaps taking a few wouldn't be the worst idea.

"Who is going to send you home in an hour?" he asked, half snarkily and half genuinely, as he stood.

"_I've_ had more than six hours of consecutive sleep."

"You were unconscious."

"It's still more than you've had." Her eyebrow quirked up, then she looked at her phone. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Agent Romanoff?"

"Make sure Tony stays away for at least eight hours, an emergency notwithstanding."

"I think that is an excellent idea, Agent."

"This is mutiny," Tony protested, glaring at his watch.

"You'll get over it." When Tony turned his glare to her, Natasha only smiled, soft and warm, which somehow had the effect of reminding Tony that this was out of concern for his own well-being, and not because she doubted his ability in any way. "Now," she said, making a shooing motion with her hands, "get out of here before we make it nine."

"Going," Tony was quick to say. To protest the coup though, he walked much slower than usual away from Natasha and out of the ICU.

* * *

By the time Bucky was done praying—only about Steve, nothing about himself—a good chunk of time had passed. He wasn't sure exactly how much, but from the stiffness of his knees and the ache in his arm, it had been quite a while.

He made the sign of the cross, then stood. His flesh arm fell to his side as normal, but his metal one stuck about halfway down. It took some minor manipulating of the elbow joint before his metal arm snapped slack. The quick movement sent fire racing through his shoulder and into his chest, bringing pain so sharp that it stole the breath from his lungs. He had doubled over before he'd realized it, and was gripping the pew in front of him so tightly he'd cracked the wood.

His arm had been bothering him periodically since his fight with Steve, but he hadn't had a chance to fix the dented plates yet. He still didn't trust the doctors at SHIELD with his arm, the only exception being him camped out on death's door, and there hadn't been time between DC, the Tower and here to find the tools necessary to make the repairs.

The pain hadn't been bad to start with, but had been progressively worsening as the days passed. Still, it wasn't even close to the worst pain he'd felt in his arm, which he'd used as leverage to convince himself that he'd be fine until he was sure Steve was okay.

As Bucky straightened up in the chapel though, he knew that was no longer the case. Every jolt—almost every breath—was magnified through his arm. It was a red-hot fire from fingers to neck, whereas before it had only been a dull ache.

He needed a janitor's closet or the IT department STAT.

He tucked his left arm against his chest, then hurried out of the chapel. The pain was ratcheting up now and darkness was tinging at his vision. He jumped slightly as a door slammed down the hall. It only jarred his arm a bit, but the corresponding pain was enough to almost drop him to his knees.

As intense nausea washed over him, he dimly realized he wasn't going to make it to anywhere that had tools. The best he could do was find somewhere empty to hole up until the pain subsided.

"Hey, are you okay?" someone asked, but Bucky ignored them.

Just then, he saw a bathroom sign sticking out of the wall and swerved into it, leaving a trail of angry passersby in his wake.

Not caring if the men's room was empty, Bucky kicked the door closed and slammed the deadbolt into the wall with his other hand. Again, despite his best efforts, the movement travelled through his entire body, setting his metal arm ablaze.

His stomach lurched and he raced into the closest stall.

* * *

Tony had just made it down to the main floor when his phone chirped. Given that Natasha was now handling all the media calls, Tony answered it without checking the display.

"What?"

"It is me, sir. I did not believe it was prudent to relay this information publically."

Tony stopped just outside the elevator and turned into the wall, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "What information, JARVIS?"

"I do believe Sergeant Barnes requires your assistance."

It really showed how far their relationship had come that Tony didn't just end JARVIS' call right then and there. "What did he damage?" It was only logical, given the state Barnes had left in. Tony could hardly blame him for tearing some room to shreds, as long as no one was hurt in the process.

"Nothing, sir. He was experiencing extreme distress leaving the main-floor chapel half an hour ago. I believe he is ill."

Tony swore under his breath. He should have known Barnes wouldn't have seen a doctor after his fight with Steve. It was usually Steve who dragged him there, and in Steve's absence and everyone else's injuries, it appeared Barnes had been more than happy to allow himself to slip through the cracks.

"Where is he now?" Tony all but groaned.

"The main-floor bathroom."

"This is extremely important, JARVIS. What kind of distress?"

"Not the kind you are thinking of, sir, but I cannot reveal any more information without violating Sergeant Barnes' privacy."

Tony exhaled, then turned away from the wall. "If you're wrong about this, J, I will be sending you to a local grade school for the week."

"I would love to be wrong about this, sir."

Well, shit.

That sentiment in mind, Tony quickly hurried down to the main floor bathroom, which was lacking its usual flow of people entering and exiting. When he got closer and heard the sounds of someone emptying their stomach, he knew why.

He tapped on the door. "Barnes, it's me."

He didn't get a clear answer, just something that sounded like a muffled groan, before a toilet was flushed.

Damn JARVIS. Didn't he know Tony wasn't good with sick people? Natasha, though seemingly colder and more reserved, was actually surprisingly soft with her teammates when they were under the weather. She was the much better choice.

As if reading his mind, JARVIS' voice drifted out of Tony's watch. "You were the closest, sir. And I believe Sergeant Barnes needs immediate assistance."

A series of stronger words left Tony's mouth, but then he pulled in as deep an inhale as he could manage, and said, "Barnes, I'm coming in."

"I'm fine," Barnes rasped, sounding anything but.

Undeterred, Tony pressed his watch to the lock. Within seconds, he heard the deadbolt click back into its sheath. He then pushed open the door to find Barnes staggering to the sink. His left arm was tucked against his ribs, he was visibly shaking, and his face was an ashen gray. The last time Tony had seen Barnes look this bad, he'd literally collapsed outside the door to the Tower, while trying to turn himself in to Steve.

"What's wrong?"

Tony then heard a humming sound and Barnes' back stiffened, arching slightly. His flesh hand grabbed at the counter, cracking it with his strength.

"What is it?" Tony demanded again, envisioning situations where the alien hadn't been totally destroyed and had somehow transferred itself to Barnes when he'd been performing CPR on Steve.

As he stepped closer, Tony tapped his bracelets, activating the suit in the nearby janitor's closet. He didn't call it to him yet, not until he had a better grasp of the situation.

"Barnes, what's wrong?"

The spasm stopped and Barnes lurched forward, barely catching himself against the counter.

"Scan," Tony ordered, tapping the side of his glasses. Within seconds, he saw the spots of red lighting up Barnes' arm in the HUD. It was experiencing some sort of malfunction, most likely/definitely caused by his fight with Steve.

Though his chest was still heaving and his skin tinted green, Barnes pushed himself upright and reached for the faucet handle again.

"There's something wrong with your arm, isn't there?" Tony asked. He suspected as much, but given that he'd never scanned the arm before, there was the slight possibility that those data points were normal.

"I can fix it," Barnes ground out, confirming Tony's theory, while throwing water on his face and rinsing out his mouth. His movements were fast and efficient, as if he was trying to get as much as possible done before his arm spasmed again.

"Yeah, it really looks like it."

"Need tools."

"Or I could look at it for you." The words were out of Tony's mouth before he even stopped to consider them. Though he definitely wanted to see just how Barnes' arm worked, he'd steered clear of both the arm and its owner while the situation between them was settling down. Right now though it seemed like the right thing to do, especially if he just performed the immediate maintenance and didn't look too far elsewhere.

"Got it, thanks."

The arm lit up again in Tony's glasses and this time, Barnes actually groaned as he doubled over, his forehead almost touching the counter. Whatever was wrong with his arm was clearly getting worse. "J, find me some tools. IT should have what we need."

There was a pause, then JARVIS said, "Agent Barton is on his way with them now."

"Barton?" Wasn't he at the Tower? Shouldn't he be resting? Where was he when JARVIS had said Tony was closest?

"He just arrived to check on Steve," JARVIS replied, to which Tony pulled a face… not that his AI could see.

"Help is on the way," he then informed Barnes, who might have shaken his head. Either that, or it was just shaking like the rest of his body. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Barnes was quiet for a moment, then gasped out, "Bent plates. Damaged servos. Pro'ly stripped wires." Then he rolled his head so he was facing Tony. "I can fix it."

"I see that."

Barnes just closed his eyes as another spasm rolled through his body.

There was a rap on the door a long few moments later, then Clint walked in, holding out a bag of tools. He quickly assessed the situation then hurried over to Barnes, placing the tools on the countertop within Barnes' reach.

Without saying a word to Tony, Clint engaged Barnes in a quick sign language conversation. Tony wasn't clear how Clint understood any of what Bucky signed, given how badly his flesh hand was shaking.

Then Clint snapped twice and turned so Tony could see his hands, which were moving rapidly.

"Translate," Tony instructed JARVIS.

"He says he'll let you do it," the AI reported. "But be quick."

Tony nodded then walked over to Barnes, who had shifted slightly so Tony could see the damaged panels on the side of his arm.

"What do I have to do?"

"Pliers, pull up and to the right to free," Barnes ground out. "Have to do the whole row."

Tony threw open the lid to the kit Clint had brought, rummaged through it, then pulled out the smallest set of pliers. He made the motion Barnes had described in the air, and when Barnes responded by closing his eyes, Tony chose to interpret it as agreement that he was doing it correctly.

"Starting on the first plate," he said as he reached into the inner side of Barnes' arm, where a small vertical seam could be found. He grabbed onto the plate then repeated the motion. With a click, the plate came free. Moving outward, Tony freed the other two damaged plates, which required quite a bit more force before coming loose. With all three gone, Tony had visibility inside Barnes' arm. There were vertical structural components, servos, and the like, which were dented, but the most obvious problem was the stripped wires that were rubbing together just behind them.

There was a small roll of electrical tape in the kit Clint had brought. It would be a patch at best, but Tony used two sets of pliers to wrap the tape around each of the stripped wires. The second they were no longer touching, Barnes let out a deep sigh and sagged into the counter.

"Thank you," he grunted as his breathing started to even out.

"You're welcome," Tony said. He finished up the tape job then turned to the plates. Using the opposite end of the pliers, he banged them against the counter until they were marginally flatter.

"Do you want me to reattach them?" he asked, to which Barnes actually lifted his head from the counter and nodded.

When Tony was done, he quickly pulled away, giving Barnes some space to regroup. Suddenly, Clint's hand was on Tony's shoulder, and with his free one, he signed a phrase Tony recognized: 'thank you.'

_You're welcome_, Tony signed back. It was then that he realized his own breathing was coming fast and his heart was pounding against his chest. It was the closest he and Barnes had been since, well, ever really, but especially since Barnes had revealed that he'd most likely killed Tony's parents.

Tony shoved that thought back deep in his brain before it turned into a full blown panic attack.

"Anything else you forgot to mention?" he asked Barnes, who slowly shook his head. "You'll forgive me if Clint takes you to see Dr. Han, just to be sure." Barnes looked like he wanted to object, but Tony cut him off. "I can't be watching over you and Steve and, no offense, but he needs me more."

Clint then signed something furiously, that Tony didn't catch because Clint's shoulder was in the way. Probably by design.

After a moment, Barnes nodded. "I'll go see Dr. Han."

"Good. Now I really have to go." Before he lost what little bit of composure he had left. "Come find us when you have a clean bill of health."

Tony didn't wait for either of them to respond before he walked out of the bathroom. It was only once the door had swung shut behind him that the magnitude of the previous situation set in, pressing down on his shoulders like a physical weight.

"Happy's here, right?" Tony asked JARVIS, not bothering to pick up his phone.

"Yes, sir."

"Have him bring the car around, please. I need to get out of here."

* * *

**Up next: we wrap up some loose ends; someone holds a press conference without consulting the rest of the team; and Steve comes around, but it's not quite the happy reunion the team was hoping for.**

**See you then!**


	18. Chapter 18

The next two days were a bit of a blur. Steve was still in quarantine, and had yet to regain consciousness, but at the end of the first day, he was taken off dialysis, as his kidneys started filtering his blood again, and at the end of the second, the staff had swapped the ventilator for an oxygen mask.

He was still being sent for scans every few hours and those who went into his room had to be fully decked out in Hazmat suits, but for all intents and purposes, he was improving.

"The scans are looking more and more normal," said the doctors, and even Clint, with his utter lack of medical training, could see that Steve's brain was lighting up in smaller areas with each scan, instead of the wildfire it had been before.

Some Greek doctor whose name Clint had forgotten had said something about Steve's brain having to rewire itself after doing it originally to maintain the symbiote. It made sense if Clint didn't think about it too hard, so he left it at that. Honestly, he was just glad the number of machines in Steve's room was dwindling.

Despite the doctors insisting Steve should truly be isolated, the Avengers were sitting with Steve in four hour shifts encased in Hazmat suits of their own. The doctors had been less than pleased with this arrangement, but Bruce had planted himself firmly in their collective paths and calmly informed them that Steve being around his team might help bring him back. The doctors had hemmed and hawed for the better part of an hour, but had eventually agreed, as long as protective gear was worn, which left the Avengers in their current rotation.

The team's individual improvements were less obvious than Steve's, but as the days wore on, it became more and more apparent that they all were healing too.

Clint had gotten some help from Fitzsimmons who had been looking for a subject to test an ultrasonic device that was supposed to promote bone growth. The device had done even better than the two scientists had hoped, and based on Clint's last X-ray, they suspected he'd be able to have the wires removed two weeks early. The rest of his injuries were significantly less serious, and despite how painful they were, there was nothing anyone could do but let his body heal itself.

After the swelling in her knee had reduced enough for an MRI, it was discovered that Natasha had a bucket-handle tear in her right meniscus that sometimes kept her knee from fully straightening. Clint knew this because he'd gone with her to her follow-up appointment, their past experience dictating that she, much like the rest of the team, had a tendency to ignore certain bits of medical advice. The doctor, Jackson, had put up her scan, shown the tear, and immediately suggested surgery to get her back in the field faster. To Jackson's (but not Clint's) surprise, Natasha had refused. Confused, Jackson had continued to press, until Natasha had very sharply cut him off and threatened to walk out unless they moved on. Clint knew Natasha didn't go for public shows of affection, but from the other side of the room, he began tapping out reassurances in Morse Code. It was only the briefest of looks that she'd shot him that let her know she'd picked up on them.

Over the past few days, the distinctly finger-shaped bruises on Tony's throat had turned a dark, vibrant purple. Yet, during one of the team check-ins, he'd reported it was hurting less with each passing day. Clint, however, knew that was a bunch of bull because the night before, he'd accidentally overheard Tony calling Dr. Han for a refill on his throat spray. Since he was eating nothing but soft foods for the foreseeable future anyway, Clint always made sure he made plenty of extra, and strategically placed them for when Tony went foraging between meetings or lapses in ideas. The cool and soft liquids, necessitated for him, would also soothe an angry and swollen throat.

He wasn't trying to be subtle about it, but someone else (or maybe more than one someone) had picked up on his plan and almost overnight, the fridge in the common area was filled with soft, palatable foods from soups and smoothies to curries and parfaits. Last night, there had even been a Tupperware of Clint's favorite borscht which he had no compunctions about taking to his floor and refusing to share. The increased number of soft, ready-made meals ended up benefiting the entire team, who despite being off active duty, were strapped for time between appointments and shifts with Steve, or who like Sam, didn't have the mental acuity to make a well-rounded meal.

Speaking of Sam, he was no longer constantly nauseous—or, so he said, the slightly green tint to his face said otherwise—but he was still having problems concentrating, couldn't look at screens for too long, and slept almost as much as Steve had when he'd first returned to the Tower. Despite all that, Sam still insisted on taking his shift with Steve at the hospital, though one of the other Avengers was conveniently around, if and when Sam fell asleep too. His recovery was slated to be the longest, second only to Steve's, if he listened to the doctors and took his healing seriously, which in typical Sam fashion, he would absolutely do.

Bucky, once he'd fixed the plates in his arm, had been officially seen by Dr. Han, and to no one's surprise, he was hiding a handful of other injuries that needed medical attention. Thankfully, though, they were far less serious than his arm. Clint only knew this because he'd offered to go with Bucky to the appointment; to this day, he was still surprised by how quickly Bucky had accepted. With that all situated, Bucky was almost a constant fixture in Steve's room, wanting to take more shifts that the rest of them and having to be practically threatened to get some rest of his own.

After having the third such discussion in two days, Tony looked about ready to move a second bed in there and call it a day, before Natasha had said something to Bucky under her breath. His expression changed in a flash and he nodded, then allowed his shifts to be reduced to six hours instead of everyone else's four. And if he doubled up with Sam too, it was a battle no one had the energy to fight.

Seemingly indifferent to Steve fighting for his life, the rest of the world went about their normal business. Literally everyone who could be tied to the events that caused the mystery assassin to acquire the alien tech and use them to fire on President Garcetti, had been arrested and charged with varying degrees of criminality. It was now up to the courts to decide who served time and who walked.

Doris Toomes and her daughter had been found innocent on all counts, and the last Clint had heard, she was planning to move their family to Oregon for a fresh start.

Jesse had volunteered to testify against his family in exchange for a clean slate and a new beginning of his own. It hadn't been an easy decision, and he'd actually called Clint via Hillson's encrypted satphone to talk through it. As painful as the decision was, it was the right choice for him, and afforded him a chance to live his life free from the sins of his family. He was a promising young comp sci student, top of his class at the local college, and Clint had no doubt Coulson would be finding a place for him at New SHIELD after he graduated.

Garcetti, much like the Avengers, had stayed silent throughout the affair, though he'd quietly had the Andrades back to the White House and brokered a deal for Costa Grava to become a territory over the next few years. This news was finally enough to break the cycle of the media haranguing the Avengers. For about a day. Then, late Saturday night, just hours after Natasha had sent Tony home, a bystander had gone to TMZ with footage of the fight in the White House from a different, and clearer angle, and the public had collectively lost their minds again.

_Do not engage_, came the text from JARVIS. _Stark Industries Public Relations will handle it._

What JARVIS failed to mention was that the person who would be handling it was Tony. He hadn't said a word to any of them, but had showed up on Sunday's morning news, standing behind a podium outside Stark Tower.

Clint had needed no translation to know that Natasha's string of Russian wasn't flattering. As the conference looked to be starting, he'd waved his hand at her then pointed to the television screen. Thankfully, she'd quieted, but he could feel the displeasure rolling off of her in nearly tangible waves.

"Thank you for coming," Tony had said. His voice had sounded practically normal, which Clint knew meant he'd doubled, if not tripled, up on his dosage just for the event. As usual, he had been dressed to the nines, and someone had done an excellent job hiding the bruising on his face and neck. "I have a statement to read on behalf of the Avengers, and will not be taking questions."

He'd paused for a minute, and looked out at the crowd, waiting for them to quiet before he continued.

"In case it wasn't made clear by the White House's statement Thursday night, the man who attacked President Garcetti was not Steve Rogers."

"Then where is he?" someone had interjected.

Tony had ignored them, and had continued reading from his cards. "Early Wednesday morning, the real Steve Rogers was seriously injured in an altercation between him and the man who would go on to try to assassinate President Garcetti. Again."

"You can't seriously expect us to believe that!" one reporter had scoffed, while another jumped to her feet. "What is Captain Rogers' status now?"

"Healing," Tony had said. "He, and the rest of the Avengers, ask for some privacy during this time."

"Then who tried to kill President Garcetti?" someone else had demanded.

Tony had cleared his throat and again waited for the man to take his seat before continuing. "As I was saying, the man who bears a remarkable resemblance to our Steve Rogers is named Clarke Robinson, who was tragically killed in the ensuing fight to save President Garcetti."

What the Avengers would later learn was that Clarke Robinson didn't exist until Saturday night, when SI had first received wind of the new footage. They'd decided against the truth to avoid a widespread scare about aliens taking over random people at will, and in a few short hours, the PR team and a few dedicated… programmers… had constructed an entire background for Robinson: yearbooks, photos, sound bytes, certificates, library cards, mortgage, W2s. To someone who didn't know better, Robinson had really existed.

"By you?"

"By a member of the Secret Service," Tony had replied, and then looked pointedly back down at his cards as someone muttered something behind the stage.

"We want to see his body!"

"That is all I have to say. Thank you for your time."

The media roared forward, but Tony just nodded and quickly made his exit. The team group chat had started up almost immediately.

_What the hell was that? _Bruce.

_Why didn't you tell us? _Natasha, but with a few stronger words conveniently lost in translation.

_I didn't want to worry all of you_, Tony had finally responded.

_Litrel latew fr thar now. _From Sam, his meaning surprisingly clear behind the typos.

There had been a bunch of dots blooming at the bottom of Clint's screen, then a simple, _Thank you_, from Bucky appeared. And the rest of the comments from the team were lost into the aether.

Despite the amount of effort that had gone into fabricating Robinson's background, it had really come down to whether people would buy this story. Within hours of the press conference, the media had started interviewing people who swore they'd gone to school with Robinson, and were sounding off on what a strange, quiet kid he'd been even back then. Footage had been uncovered of him playing sports for school and club teams. Electronic copies of his diplomas from mid-level universities had been plastered across every screen.

Sure there had been dissenters, but there just wasn't enough evidence for them to prove that Robinson didn't exist. Those who had come out to say that they didn't remember him, were shown footage or pictures of them interacting with him. Even though these edited assets directly contradicted the copies that the interviewee had brought with, the public seemed to believe that those original works were edited, and not the ones blazing across the news. Those dissenters typically didn't make it back for a second interview. Once the situation was likened to a Berenstein/Berenstain Bears situation, it began to fall out of news cycles, in favor of the court cases for those who were still alive and involved.

Thankfully, the story that had persisted was those wishing Steve well, and now the public was waiting for any information about his recovery. Somehow, someone had found out what hospital Steve was staying at, which forced both the hospital, and Happy by extension, to double guards outside the points of ingress, and station a pair outside the entry to Steve's quarantine unit. With those changes, the doctors seemed less interested in holding the Avengers to standard visiting hours, which was the single good thing to come out of this whole mess.

The team was mobbed entering and exiting, no matter what doors they used, but as instructed, they kept their collective heads down, and went about visiting Steve or spending their time away at the Tower, out of the public's prying eyes, until this all blew over.

Now, mid-day Monday, Clint was sitting beside Steve, messing around on his phone, when the monitors began to beep more quickly. This had happened a few times over the past day, but just in case this was the time Steve well and truly came around, Clint was on his feet in a second and peering down at his friend. Unlike previous times, Steve's face was scrunched in pain, his eyes screwed closed, and a beat later, he began rocking back and forth in bed, struggling against something unknown.

Unable to reach for his phone, Clint opened his mouth as much as he could and told JARVIS to call Bucky. He then laid his gloved hand gently on Steve's shoulder, trying his best to hold the supersoldier still.

"Translate," he said to JARVIS, then began signing furiously with one hand.

"You're okay, Steve," the AI intoned. "You're safe. At the hospital. I need you to calm down."

At the sound of JARVIS' words, Steve stilled. His eyes continued fluttering though, and a few long minutes later, he managed to crack them open, revealing two beautiful slits of blue.

"Hey man," JARVIS translated. "You back with us?"

Steve stared up at Clint, and his brow furrowed.

"Sorry about the get-up. But it's me—Clint. Bucky is on his way."

The lines in Steve's forehead only deepened.

"Hey, just stick with me. I'm going to call a doctor, okay?"

Steve just continued staring at Clint's face, almost as if he wasn't seeing Clint himself. Clint hurried over to the glass wall of the quarantine unit and banged on it, frightening the nurse who was walking by.

"He's awake," he signed, and JARVIS repeated. "Get a doctor."

Clint hurried back to Steve's bedside, and found Steve still awake, but staring into the space Clint had vacated.

"It won't be long now, okay?" JARVIS translated.

Behind the oxygen mask, Steve's mouth was moving. Clint very carefully pulled the mask away, leaving it close enough for the oxygen to still flow. He bent down slightly, and was only barely able to hear something like, "you."

"You?" he asked Steve. "You what?"

Steve turned to look at Clint in a brief moment of clarity. "'re you?" he said, as his heartrate picked up and he began struggling to get away from Clint. He threw himself into the rail of the bed, sending the whole apparatus skittering across the floor.

Trying to both be comforting and keep Steve from hurting himself further, Clint grabbed Steve's wrist. It was only as he felt himself sailing through the air and crashing into the far wall that he realized that had been the wrong choice.

"L'me go!" Steve was slurring, more animatedly, as he threw himself against the remaining rail of the bed. "L'me free!"

Clint had just pulled himself to his feet when a horde of doctors and security surged into the room, pushing him out of the way.

Steve was speaking much faster, unintelligible, and struggling hard against an unseen foe. Someone else went flying before Clint caught a glimpse of metal near Steve's IV port. A long moment later, Steve's breathing began to calm down and he slumped down in bed.

The doctors enveloped Steve, talking about things Clint couldn't make out, but probably wouldn't have understood anyway. Then, they were wheeling Steve out of the room, leaving Clint all alone.

The silence was momentarily disorienting after all the chaos, and as Clint dropped back against the wall and reached for his phone, he signed something which JARVIS, still under protocol, voiced.

"Shit_._"

* * *

"Where the hell is he?" Bucky demanded, ten minutes later, as he sprinted out of the stairwell. The evidence that he'd literally dropped everything to be here were littered all over his body: the collar that was half-tucked under, half sticking straight up; the one shoe that was a sharp step away from untying itself; his hair, which had been hastily pulled back, but missed a section just over his ear.

"Scans," Clint signed.

Bucky swore loudly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I texted you."

"You did not," Bucky retorted as he pulled out his phone. In a different situation, Clint would have reacted smugly to the blinking notification light, but after everything that had happened today, he was too drained to make the words go.

"What the hell happened?"

"He didn't recognize me."

"Could just be the drugs," Bucky replied, but it was far too fast and light for Clint to believe that was what he actually thought. "What'd the doctors say?"

"Could be the drugs, could be lingering effects from the symbiote." Clint shrugged to emphasize the doctors' utter helplessness. He knew the next part had to be handled delicately, but if he were Bucky, he'd want to hear it straight, without any fluff. So he took a deep breath and said, "Steve didn't know where he was, and was trying to escape."

Bucky's metal fingers curled into a fist as he cursed again. "I knew I shouldn't have left. I told you he was going to need me."

"He was himself," JARVIS translated for Clint. "Blue eyes and all. Just confused."

Bucky cursed one last time but then relaxed his shoulders… slightly. "Did he hurt anyone?"

Clint shook his head. His collision with the wall had radiated through his jaw, which was smarting now more than usual, but he hadn't needed a medical professional to tell him that his back was at worst bruised. The other nurse who had been thrown had collided with a colleague first. Both were fine.

Relief washed over Bucky's face before he asked, "They say when he'd be back?"

Clint shook his head, then signed, "sorry man."

"Not your fault." With a deep exhale, Bucky sank down in the seat next to Clint. "Just when I think we're finally getting ahead of this thing, you know?"

"The doctors specifically told me to not let you freak out," JARVIS said for Clint. "Apparently this wing just got redone last year."

Bucky muttered something about where they could stick their suggestion, and clicked on the screen of his phone. "Did you tell everyone else?" he then asked.

"I was going to wait and see what the scans said first," Clint signed.

Bucky said something else under his breath, too soft for Clint to catch, then slipped his phone back into his jacket, and settled in to do just that.

* * *

One long hour later, Steve was rolled back into the quarantine unit. The oxygen mask had been downgraded to a nasal cannula, but he was still connected to an assortment of IVs and other assorted monitoring equipment.

The scans had come back with even more improvement, which left the doctors cautiously optimistic that Steve's confusion was temporary while his brain patterns continued to normalize. As usual, they tacked on their usual disclaimer that this was way outside of their field of study and that they were really only guessing, before leaving the room.

Bucky waited until they were gone before shrugging on his Hazmat suit, entering the quarantine unit, dragging his chair over to Steve's bed and cautiously resting his gloved flesh hand on Steve's.

"I always hated this part," Bucky said softly, shifting then so his hand slipped under Steve's. "Waiting for him to wake up. It was worse though, back then. We didn't have all this." He didn't need to point to anything specific to convey the wonders of modern medicine. "And what they had, Mrs. Rogers couldn't always afford."

"It must have been rough."

Bucky nodded, and out of the corner of his eye, Clint, who had dressed and followed Bucky into the room at a normal human's pace, could see his friend wasn't really focusing on the room in front of him anymore.

"He always made it through. The stubborn jerk." Then Bucky shook his head and looked back at Steve. This time, his expression was laden with things unsaid.

Clint pretended to yawn dramatically and notice the time on his watch while his hands were in the air. "What do you know, my shift is almost over," he signed to JARVIS. "Mind spelling me until Natasha gets here?"

"You're ridiculous," Bucky said, though he didn't look away from Steve.

Clint just tipped his head to acknowledge the point, and walked out of the quarantine unit.

* * *

Later that night, long after Bucky's shift was over, he crept back into the hospital, past the guards, slipped into a spare Hazmat suit—which, for the record, he thought was totally ridiculous, but he wasn't taking any chances with Steve in his current condition—and walked into the decontamination walkway. He held up the item he'd acquired during his break, to make sure it was thoroughly cleaned as well, before the inner door slid open and Bucky stepped in.

"Hey, Steve," he said softly. Not unexpectedly, his friend didn't react. In fact, Steve hadn't regained consciousness at all since that afternoon. Sam was sitting with him now, but as usual, had fallen asleep in his chair, head pillowed into a mound of sheets by Steve's hand. Someone had slung a jacket over his back, and Bucky pulled it a little higher to cover the back of Sam's neck as he passed.

On the other side of the bed, he quietly pulled up a chair and lowered himself into it.

"I remember when you had pneumonia that one winter," Bucky began as he leaned back in the chair. "And all you wanted me to do was read to you. So that's what I'm gonna do.

"And if you're gonna wake up and laugh at me, now'd be a great time."

Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, Steve's eyes remained closed, and his heart rate continued its slow yet regular rhythm against its monitor.

"Okay, you asked for it." Bucky paused to crack open the cover of the hardback book he'd bought at the store around the corner, then began, "_In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…_"

* * *

**Regarding the bears: I would put good money on the fact it was Bernstein (neither of the above two options). Unfortunately the books I had as a kid have long since been given away. If anyone has proof of this glitch in the matrix, I'd love to see it.**

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


	19. Chapter 19

**The general consensus from the previous chapter was that the matrix did in fact glitch, and that we all read Ber(e)nst**_**e**_**in Bears books. Thank you all for confirming.**

**This chapter is on the short side, but it's one you've all been looking forward to! Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Bucky was in the middle of a _Lord of the Rings_-esque dream (with Fury playing the role of Gandalf, except he was wearing purple robes instead of the traditional white or gray; a small and sickly Steve circa 1943 was standing in for Frodo; Bucky was apparently Sam, complete with a natural but somehow functional prosthetic arm; and the rest of the Commandos as various characters from the Fellowship) when someone jabbed at his hand.

"He's waking up," a man said. It took Bucky a moment to realize that the man who was speaking was Tony. Which meant the 'he' in question was probably Steve.

He had bolted upright and was wide awake before Tony could close the cover of _The Hobbit_. "I thought it was a good idea," Tony said, somewhat defensively. "Let's not make a big deal about it." Then he pointed at Steve, whose eyes were dancing around under his eyelids. Every so often, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed.

"He's just dreaming," Bucky said, though it seemed more like a nightmare based on the faces Steve was making. Bucky hadn't seen Steve act like this before, and hoped whatever it was would pass as quickly as it'd arrived.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Tony shake his head. "He's waking up. Watch."

Sure enough, a long minute later, Steve's expression stilled and his eyelids fluttered open, revealing two beautifully blue pupils.

"Hey, Steve," Tony said, more gently than Bucky had ever heard him. "You back with us?"

Steve's head lolled to the left slightly. He was just shy of making eye contact with Tony, though he was definitely looking in Tony's general direction.

"Hey, buddy," Tony said. "How are you feeling?"

Then, the line down the center of Steve's forehead deepened and Tony looked over at Bucky. "You try."

"What?" was all Bucky had time to say before he was being shuffled closer to the head of Steve's bed, where Tony had stood only a moment before.

Though Steve's expression was still confused, something in his eyes shifted as Bucky stepped closer.

"Hey, Stevie," Bucky said gently. He reached down to rest his hand on Steve's upper arm, only realizing after he made contact that it was with his metal one. Granted, it was covered in a heavy-duty glove as part of the Hazmat suit, but regardless, the touch seemed to matter to Steve.

His friend flinched back, which sent Bucky two large steps in the other direction, not wanting to further frighten Steve. Then Bucky heard a soft click and knew Tony had woken up the suit that was standing in the corner of the room that was currently out of Steve's line of sight. The lights in the Iron Man's suit's face flicked on, but it made no motion to encase Tony.

Surprisingly, Steve didn't react like he had with Clint. He stayed where he was in bed, head moved up to the plastic headboard instead of the pillow it'd been on before he'd slid backward, but didn't say a word. After a beat, his perpetual frown deepened until his eyebrows were practically touching, his eyes squinted closed, and his lips disappeared into a thin line.

"We're calling the doctors," Tony said from behind Bucky. "They want to see how you are."

Then, Steve's face went slack, dropping Bucky's heart to somewhere around his knees. "Steve?" he asked as he stepped closer.

Thankfully, Steve was still conscious, though it took him a long moment to blink, then look over at Bucky again. His gaze was hazy and just shy of focused. Under the nasal cannula, his lips started moving, but no sound was made. It only took Bucky a few repetitions to realize Steve was soundlessly saying the same word over and over again.

"I can't understand you, Steve," said Bucky. He was back to his original place directly next to the bed. If he reached down, he could have touched Steve again. But he didn't and wouldn't until his friend was more aware.

Steve swallowed hard, a motion which jarred his entire body, then whispered, "'uck?"

It was the single, most beautiful word Bucky had ever heard. He didn't want to get too far ahead of himself—Steve had quite the long path ahead of him—but Steve had recognized him, despite the Hazmat suit. That had to count for something.

"Yeah, it's me, Steve. Glad to have you back with us." Bucky shoved his hands into his jacket pockets before they acted on their own accord, and felt something prick at the corner of his eye, which he immediately ordered his body to stop.

He heard the click again and this time, the lights in the Iron Man suit went out. Steve must have heard it too, for he tried to crane his neck toward the sound. He only got a few inches before his face scrunched up in pain.

"If I don't get a doctor in here right now, I'm going to lose it," Tony bellowed. Steve screwed his eyes closed, most likely at the loudness of Tony's voice, but there wasn't anything either Tony or Bucky could do differently. Neither of them was going to leave to fetch someone, but Steve was clearly in pain and needed help.

Steve's left eye flitted open and it looked like he was staring more at Tony than he was Bucky.

"Do you recognize me, Steve?" Tony asked, somewhat hesitantly. "It's okay if you don't," he quickly added. "You've done great today already."

Bucky couldn't help but look over his shoulder in surprise. It wasn't that he didn't know Tony was capable of that restraint or degree of thoughtfulness; the last year, but especially the last two weeks, had shown him that time and time again. No, Bucky's surprise was more at the restraint Tony was exercising in this situation, especially when he wasn't sure he'd be able to do the same.

Steve stared at Tony's upper body, his eyes not quite making it to Tony's face, for a long moment. Then, he slowly mumbled, "T'ny."

A thousand-watt grin lit up Tony's face as he nodded. "Yeah, Steve. I'm Tony." He sucked in a quick inhale then said, "Welcome back."

Then, Steve's heart beat quickened and various monitors started to scream. "T'm," he muttered, trying desperately to push himself upright. "W'ere's t'm?"

Bucky's hands were out and hovering inches above Steve's shoulders, not wanting to make contact unless he had to, given how Steve had reacted the first time. "They're resting. They're fine. We're all fine."

Finally, a nurse stepped into the decontamination unit and Tony knew they didn't have much more time to calm Steve before the nurse would inject him with a drug to achieve the same effect.

"JARVIS, violate privacy settings of the rest of the Avengers, unless the situation requires it. Stats on screen. Vocal override Alpha Charlie Niner Aught Two."

Then, Tony pulled out his phone and held it in front of Steve's face, hoping the bright light emanating from the device wasn't going to make Steve's pain any worse.

Steve stopped struggling and stared with an incredible amount of focus at the screen. His face scrunched up again as he squinted at the four images JARVIS was hopefully displaying: Sam, Natasha, Clint and Bruce all alive and breathing, based on their pulse and respiration rates that should have been overlaid.

As the nurse walked into the room, Steve was still staring at the screen. "That's live footage of the Tower," Tony said, taking a quick peek over the phone to ensure that all four screens were being populated. He quickly pointed out what the numbers meant, though he wasn't sure Steve understood them. But then, Steve closed his eyes in a prolonged blink, which Tony took to mean he somehow had.

Bucky and Tony stepped back to allow the nurse to do her job, but they made sure they shifted into the space Steve was looking at when his eyes drifted.

"He recognized us," Tony informed Nurse Emily when she finally stepped back from Steve.

Her smile was genuine. "That's a great sign. We're going to need to take him for more scans now."

"Sure." Tony then leaned slightly closer to Steve. "Did you understand that?"

Steve did his long blink again, instead of nodding.

"Okay." Tony stepped toward the wall so Nurse Emily could unlock the brakes and prep Steve for transport. "We'll be here when you get back. Maybe even more of us, if they're awake."

If Tony and Bucky weren't mistaken, the corners of Steve's mouth lifted ever so slightly as Nurse Emily wheeled him out of the room.

* * *

By the time Steve was done with his multitude of scans and assorted tests, the rest of the Avengers had gathered in his room. Some leaned against the walls, some perched on the cot that had been brought in at some point over the last two days, and one was sprawled on top of a recently cleared-off dresser set. The one thing they'd all seemed to agree on was that Sam, who was still having vestibular issues, deserved the lone arm chair to himself.

They collectively held their breath as Steve was rolled back into the room, not sure what state of awareness they'd find him in. To their great relief, he was awake, and staring at all of them with a surprising amount of clarity.

The gauze around his neck was gone, revealing two light pink patches where Natasha had shocked him with her Widow's Bites during the helipad fight. The burns had been almost fully scabbed over until they, and every wound Steve had accrued over the past two weeks, had reopened when the symbiote made its exit. They, and the rest of his injuries, had stagnated for a few days after that as the serum prioritized the damage, but were apparently starting to heal again.

"Dr. Jackson will be in soon to review the results of the scans," Nurse Emily said as she docked the bed back against the wall. "But between you and me, he seemed very excited by the results."

She had barely left the room before Steve grabbed the bed remote with a shaky hand and pressed the 'up' button.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Bucky questioned, hand out but not quite touching Steve's. With all his friend had been through, staying horizontal for a little longer seemed like a pretty good idea.

Steve turned his head slightly and made a face at Bucky, that quick look saying more than any number of his words ever would have.

Tony must have picked up on that too, for he commented, "Someone's feeling better."

Steve dropped his chin a fraction, then released the remote. Starting from Bucky, on his left, he slowly panned the room, using his eyes more than actually moving his neck.

"'m so sorry," he then said, his voice both raw and rough. It didn't sound wholly like him, but it didn't sound like the symbiote's mechanical drawl either.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Natasha interjected, rising up from the cot and stepping closer. "The symbiote did it, not you."

Steve shook his head minutely. "Sorry, so sorry," he began repeating, as his heart rate sped up and his blood pressure spiked.

Bruce pushed past the team so he was directly in Steve's line of sight. "I need you to calm down, okay? The staff aren't going to let us stay if you react like this."

Though Steve nodded, his head movements small and quick, his vitals didn't normalize any.

"Sorry in advance." With that, Bruce he grabbed Steve's uncasted hand, and mindful of the IV, held it against his chest, hoping Steve's extraordinary sense of touch would be able to feel his heartbeat through the Hazmat suit. "In and out with me, okay?" He took a few deep breaths and motioned with his free hand for Steve to do the same.

Slowly, but surely, with each shaky breath, Steve's vitals slid down to normal ranges.

"Sorry," he said again, as his chest continued to heave.

"Agent Barton has asked me to relay the following message," JARVIS spoke up. "Quote, if you apologize one more time, I will not be responsible for my actions, unquote."

"'kay." Steve didn't look entirely happy about the concept, but he did rest his head back against his pillow. "Hi," he then said, and it was a testament to how worn out the entire room was that they burst into laughter at the absurdity of the statement.

Dr. Jackson found them that way a few long moments later.

"We must be feeling better," he said as he approached Steve. "I'm Dr. Jackson, your neurologist. Do you mind if I take a look at you?"

When Steve shook his head, Dr. Jackson asked him a few questions: who the President was, what month it was, what his name was. Steve knew the first and third ones, but struggled with the second.

Jackson didn't comment and just noted the answers in Steve's rapidly growing file.

He moved on to a series of physical tests: having Steve look from Jackson's nose to his finger, which he positioned in different areas; having Steve follow his finger in a 'H' pattern without moving his head; having Steve fully extend one shaking arm then try to touch his nose, with each hand; then having Steve stick out his tongue and wag it back and forth.

If a majority of the Avengers hadn't been put through these same tests at one point or another, they might have thought them silly. From their previous experiences, they knew Jackson was looking for deviations from midline, which tested one of the nerves… probably only Bruce, and maybe even Tony, knew which one exactly.

Jackson then had Steve shrug, smile, and make a variety of faces, before he did something with a tuning fork to check Steve's hearing.

Steve's reactions were slow, and his motions shaky, but with the exception of touching his nose, he managed to complete all the tests. For that one, he landed somewhere under his closest eye, still a few inches from his nose.

Jackson then lightly palpated Steve's face and neck, being sure to announce when his hands were changing positions.

"So what's the verdict?" JARVIS translated for Clint when Jackson finally finished jotting down his findings in Steve's file.

"He's made remarkable progress on these tasks even in the last two hours, which is very promising," Jackson replied, as he looked at the team. "He still has some perception deficits, slurred speech, tremors with motion. I'd like to keep him here for at least another few days to monitor his progress."

Then Jackson put down the file and reached over his head to release the hood of his Hazmat suit. He pulled it over his face so it hung by his chest then shook his head. "But, I've spoken to all the other doctors on Captain Rogers' case and we don't believe him to be contagious anymore. If you're comfortable, you're free to take off your suits."

There was a scurry of motion as the team quickly stepped out of their Hazmat suits and, at the sight of their faces up close, Steve smiled wider, though it still didn't quite reach his eyes.

"We'll heal," Bucky said, holding his flesh hand over Steve's. "Stop worrying about us." He snorted at his own words. "Stop worrying about us, _for now_. Until you're better. Then you can go back to worrying all you want."

With a shaky hand, Steve reached up and took Bucky's, wrapping his trembling fingers around his friend's calloused but steady ones.

Bucky knew Steve well enough to know that he would never truly stop worrying about the rest of his team, but for that moment, it was enough that Steve looked up at him and replied, "Deal."

* * *

**Just two more chapters to go! Thanks for all your support throughout this fic!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Potential trigger warning: Steve has a nightmare about what he did under the symbiote's control, and it spirals pretty far before Tony and Bucky can pull him out of it. I don't think it's any worse than Tony's nightmare in **_**Age of Ultron, **_**but if that's a no-go for you, you can skip ahead to the first break, where we shift to Clint's point of view.**

* * *

Four days later, Steve jerked upright. His eyes snapped open to saucer-wide proportions, his breaths came so quickly his chest was starting to hurt, and his skin felt like someone had vacuum-packed it to his bones.

Nausea lurched in his stomach and he fought his way out of the tangle of bedsheets, barely making it to the bathroom before he began to retch.

When he was done, he crawled a shaky hand up the side of the toilet and depressed the plunger. In the same motion, he yanked on the lid of the toilet, sending it crashing into the bowl, and rested his sweaty head against it.

His nightmare chose that moment to replay itself on the backs of his closed eyelids. The symbiote was back, controlling his body, leaving him helpless. He was back on the roof of the Tower, fighting the rest of the team, except he wasn't stopping at unconsciousness. He'd snapped Sam's neck like the bones were made of paper. He'd shattered Natasha's skull with his shield. Clint, he'd thrown off the landing pad, and Bucky had a large gash from Steve's shield in his side. He was clutching it with both hands, gasping while blood dribbled out of the side of his mouth.

And Steve just sat there, watching, as the light drifted out of his once-friend's eyes and his hands fell slack.

Bodies rained down from the sky, landing next to his team: four members of the Secret Service and two advisors, broken and bleeding.

Steve ignored them.

He then turned to find Tony, without the suit, hands out in front of him, as if that was going to stop Steve. In one quick motion, Steve was on his feet, had dislocated both of Tony's wrists and was choking him to death with one hand. Tony didn't resist, which made it worse. And then he too went slack, and Steve was left as the only breathing Avenger on the landing pad.

Steve fumbled with the lid of the toilet and threw up again. And again. And again. Until he was sure there was nothing left for his body to expel. His side where Tony had blasted him burned with the violent heaving, so he pressed his palm to the wound in hopes the pressure would keep it from reopening.

He heard a sound outside his bathroom and threw himself as far away from the door as he could. That ended up being about a foot and a half as his back collided with the tub, but he didn't have the control required to climb into the tub itself.

"Sta' back!" he slurred as he pulled his hands in tight, so they couldn't do the damage of his nightmares.

"It's just me, Steve," a familiar voice—Tony—said.

"'m fine!" he panted. "Don't come in."

"JARVIS believes otherwise."

"Don't," Steve begged. He couldn't watch Tony die again, unable to do anything but watch as his hands tightened around his friend's throat. "Please."

"Steve, I can't leave you in there like this."

"I'm fine—'ll be fine." Even as he said it, dots were spotting his vision and his lungs were burning with a lack of oxygen. He heard a whining, then the door to his en suite bathroom at the Tower flew off its hinges. A flash of red caught the doorknob so the door only slid a few feet before Tony, in the helmet, gauntlets and lower leg attachments of the Iron Man suit, lowered it to the ground.

"Jesus, Steve," he breathed, quickly dropping to the ground beside Steve, who recoiled as far from Tony as he could.

"G'away," Steve begged again. "Please."

"I have the suit, Steve. You're not going to hurt me."

"Doesn't matter." Steve scuttled backward until his back was wedged in the corner between the tub and the wall. He held up his arms again to put some space between him and Tony. "Please, just go."

"Not until you calm down."

There was a racing set of footsteps, then Bucky was standing in the doorway, which no longer held a door. His face fractured as he took in the scene, then took a cautious step inside the room.

"Tell me one thing you see," Bucky ordered, his voice an indistinct blur in the throbbing in Steve's ears.

"G'away!" Steve's chest was really hurting now. His lungs burned. His head throbbed.

"Steve!"

Steve slowly looked over at Bucky, who crossed his arms over his chest and repeated, "Tell me one thing you see." His voice was steady and left no room for argument.

"You," Steve forced out between heaving inhales.

"Tell me another."

"Tony."

"Tell me something you feel."

Steve had to think about it for a long moment. He was kinda numb, almost lightheaded, but then he felt something digging into his back. "Tub."

"What's it feel like?"

"Cold." He hated being cold.

"What else?"

"Smooth." Or it would be, if his spine wasn't wedged in the corner.

Steve's breaths were coming slightly easier now and the blackness that had been encroaching on his vision was backing off.

"What's one thing you hear."

That one wasn't as bad. "Water. Through the pipes." Without being prompted, Steve added, "you both breathing."

At some point, someone must have flushed the toilet again and turned on the fan, for it was smelling less and less like Steve's sickness, which made it a lot easier to answer Bucky's next question about what he smelled.

Then Tony handed him a glass of water, which Steve accepted with shaky hands.

"You back with us?" Bucky asked, still planted in the far corner of the room.

Steve nodded, then unbidden, his eyes began to fill with unwanted tears. "What the hell is wrong with me?" he snapped as he pulled his sleeve over his hand and scrubbed at his face.

It had been like this for the past four days. His body just felt and did things without Steve's conscious input. He'd cried more over the past ninety-six hours than he had since waking up in 2012, most recently when he'd learned that Bucky had prayed for him in the hospital chapel and that Tony had willingly fixed Bucky's damaged arm. Randomly, Steve's limbs would jerk, shivers would race down his spine, and his head would be in blinding pain for one second, then completely fine the next. Sometimes he struggled to find the right words, other times his memory would just go blank, and had more than once been told he was speaking the wrong language. His balance wasn't great, which left him walking close to walls as he regained his equilibrium, and after finally being able to taste something other than sand for a small part of last week, food was back to being dull and unappetizing.

But somehow, he'd improved enough to be released from the hospital yesterday. Well, that wasn't entirely true. The doctors had wanted to keep him for longer, but the rest of the team had walked through every criteria they had laid out for Steve's release, and at the end, even they had had to admit Steve had passed all of them. He was scheduled for check-ups every two days and scans every two visits, but he'd agreed to all of it if he could just get out of there, and start trying to repair the damage the symbiote had done.

The team had told him repeatedly it wasn't his fault and deep down, Steve knew it, but it was hard to connect those points when all he saw was their injuries, healing slowly and normally. Sam was the worst and would be on sick leave for a long time. Steve avoided him the most because Sam couldn't hide how he was feeling, like the rest of the team could. Sam's bouts of dizziness and headaches were unknowingly painted on his face. Clint he avoided too, because it killed him to see his friend unable to talk because of something his hands had done. Natasha was easier, when she didn't have her knee brace—a reminder that she was on light duty until she passed the physical exam again. Tony and Bucky, Steve could spend time with in small doses, until his concentration slipped and he saw his hand wrapping around Tony's throat, or his fist crashing into Bucky's face. Which just left Bruce, who Steve hadn't interacted with much at all when the symbiote had taken over. If Bruce found this strange, he didn't say anything, and just made sure there were blankets and books on his couch in the lab for Steve to use while he sat there for hours on end.

"Permission to touch?" Bucky asked, snapping Steve back to the present.

Steve nodded, and Bucky's arms were wrapping around him, pulling him away from the cold tub and the smooth floor and into warm arms. He leaned into his friend, hearing Bucky's heart hammering beneath his soft Henley.

"There is nothing wrong with you, you hear me. Nothing."

"He's right," Tony said from somewhere behind Bucky.

Which really meant something because Steve could count on one hand the number of times Tony and Bucky had actively agreed.

"You just had something live in your brain for two weeks," Tony continued. "It's going to take a second to find your equilibrium again."

Then Tony's hand was on the arm not buried in Bucky's chest. It hesitated for a second, then began rubbing a path up and down, up and down.

"You're going to figure this out," Bucky said softly. "You're going to be okay."

At the moment, Steve felt anything but okay, but Bucky had said it with such conviction, that Steve allowed himself to believe it, even for the briefest of seconds.

* * *

Two days later, Clint was lounging on his bed, messing around on his phone, when he heard a knock on his door. He looked up to find Steve standing awkwardly in the open doorway.

"Hey," Clint signed as he slid his legs over the side of the bed. "You look better."

"I feel better," Steve said, but then he crossed his arms over his chest, casted one out in front, and hunched slightly, which expressed the exact opposite sentiment.

He did look better, though. He was steadier on his feet, was eating again—less than they'd all like, but apparently food was starting to have real taste again—and overall seemed to be in more control. He still didn't spend a lot of time with the team, but he ventured out of his room every now and again for meals, and last night for movie night, so Clint considered that a bonus.

"What can I do you for?" Clint signed as he stood up and walked over to Steve.

"How did you do it?" Steve asked, his voice painfully low, almost guilty.

Clint didn't have to be a genius to know what _it _was.

"I talked to someone," he replied. "And I listened to the people who told me it wasn't my fault."

In lieu of a response, Steve scrunched up his face and rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes.

Clint lifted his hands higher to signal JARVIS, who translated, "Headache?"

"Yeah," Steve said, before his face paled and he grabbed onto the door frame, cracking it slightly with his iron grip.

"Find Bruce!" Clint signed before reaching out and resting a hand on Steve's back, ready to help him to a chair.

He wasn't expecting Steve to fly out of his grip, shouting, "I'm fine!"

Clint froze, unsure of what to do next, while in the hallway, Steve's expression turned mortified.

"I'm so sorry," he said, stepping closer to Clint. And Clint couldn't help it, but he flinched.

Steve's eyes widened and he quickly plastered himself against the far side of the hallway. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "So sorry." Before Clint could say anything, Steve had sprinted out of sight.

Clint swore between the tiny gap the wires allowed him, then leaned over his bed and grabbed his phone.

He startled when he heard someone ask, "What happened?" from the doorway.

Clint scowled, stuck his phone under his arm, and signed, "Steve was here. Had a headache. Freaked out when I tried to help."

"We need to find him," Bruce said. Then, he stopped in the doorway and asked, "What else happened?"

It was then that Clint realized he was wearing a rather guilty expression. "He came toward me to apologize and I flinched."

"It's not your fault," Bruce was quick to say, yet somehow, he meant it.

Clint knew Bruce was right, but it hadn't made it any easier to watch Steve's horrified reaction.

"Call Bucky," Clint signed. "And JARVIS, find Steve!"

* * *

Bucky opened the door to the Tower's roof to find Steve sitting in the middle of the quinjet landing pad with his knees tucked up to his chest and his head buried in his arms. He'd been in the middle of a workout when he heard, and JARVIS had relayed the entire story while he traced Steve's steps through the Tower.

"Tell Clint it's not his fault," Bucky had said before jumping into the stairwell.

"He said to tell you he knows that, and he'd appreciate it if people stopped bringing it up," JARVIS had relayed.

Bucky hadn't spared the time to respond.

Steve didn't even look up as Bucky very loudly slammed the metal door. He wasn't sure if Steve was sleeping or zoned out, but wanted to be sure his friend knew he was here before he started approaching.

"I'm fine," Steve said thickly once Bucky was in earshot, but otherwise didn't turn around.

Bucky carefully took a seat beside Steve. "I see that," he replied, though his new vantage point showed that Steve was anything but. His eyes were red-rimmed and his expression utterly helpless, causing Bucky's resolve to have this conversation here, on the site of where everything went wrong, to waver.

"C'mon," Bucky said, holding out his hand as he stood again. "We're going out."

Steve's brow furrowed. "Buck, I'm really not in the mood."

"Do you trust me?"

Steve's lips disappeared into a thin line, but he did grab Bucky's outstretched hand and allow himself to be pulled to his feet. "Where are we going?"

"You'll find out."

The two took the elevator down to the parking garage in utter silence, and Steve hung back as Bucky pulled two helmets off the rack and held one out to Steve. A flicker of amusement crossed Steve's face but Bucky just shook the helmet.

"Nat would kill you," he added.

The corner of Steve's mouth lifted, but he took the helmet and clipped it on. Bucky then climbed on Steve's motorcycle and revved it to life. He waited until Steve had slid on behind him and wrapped his arms around Bucky's waist, before he accelerated out of the garage.

When Bucky had turned himself into the Avengers, he'd basically refused to leave the Tower until he was sure whatever had been done to him couldn't be used to hurt anyone else, ever again. The arrangement had suited him perfectly fine, but Steve ended up having other plans. One day, he'd convinced Bucky to leave the Tower and had taken him to Brooklyn Bridge Park, where he'd slowly but calmly informed Bucky that he couldn't stay locked up in the Tower for the rest of his life, and needed to start living again.

To take Steve there today would be a little on the nose. Besides, the conversation they needed to have required more privacy. And Bucky knew just the place that would afford them that.

Twenty-three silent minutes later, they backed into a parking space outside a hole-in-the-wall deli in Kensington.

"I'm really not hungry, Buck," Steve said as he climbed off the back of the motorcycle.

"Well, I am. And you better order something, because when you smell it, you'll want some, and you sure aren't stealing any of mine."

"Jimmy! You're back!" Esther, the elderly owner of the deli, cried as soon as they walked through the door.

Steve immediately looked over his shoulder, clearly expecting someone to have entered behind them. All the while, Bucky was keeping a mental clock of how long it took Steve to realize that Esther was referring to him, and not some random stranger.

Steve took a slow pan of the sparsely-filled room, not seeing anyone respond to Esther's greeting. Then, his gaze landed on Bucky and in that same second, realization struck. "You let her call you Jimmy?" he asked incredulously.

"You try reasoning with her," Bucky shot back as Esther began her slow shuffle around the counter toward them. "How's business today?"

If Esther heard his question, she chose not to answer it. "You're losing weight, Jimmy," she stated as she approached. "Can see it from all the way over here. Are they not feeding you enough in Manhattan?"

Steve actually snorted while Bucky just threw on a dramatic scowl. "I'm eating fine, Esther." He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "It's this one you have to worry about."

The grin dropped off Steve's face in an instant as Esther turned her inquiring gaze to him. "I'm eating fine too," he was quick to protest, but Esther held up a hand for silence.

"I agree with Jimmy," she said after a moment. "You're too skinny." She turned back to Bucky. "It's a good thing you brought him here. There's still time to save him."

Bucky had to hold back a laugh at Steve's utterly baffled expression.

"Two of everything?" Esther then asked as she made her way back behind the counter.

"Corned beef for him," Bucky replied. "He doesn't like pastrami."

Esther looked over at Steve with faux disapproval, but then said, very seriously, "We'll try not to hold it against him."

While she wrote up their order and stretched up to stick it in the clip above the pass-through, Steve asked, "What's going on?" so softly that only Bucky could hear.

"You told me to get out, remember. This was one of the places I found."

Steve's expression faltered for a brief second.

"If you're about to make this speech about how you're honored to be here, you can skip it. Today is not about me." Then, Bucky added, "Though one day, we should probably have a serious discussion about how you don't seem to follow your own advice. All that fancy food Stark brings in pales in comparison to stuff like this."

To his surprise, Steve nodded. "I used to, you know. Go out, try new places, try new food. But then I started running missions for SHIELD and things got busy, and I guess…" he trailed off with a shrug. "…I guess I never got back to it."

Before Bucky could respond, Esther turned around, hauled herself into a high-seated chair in front of the cash register, and said, "You know, Jimmy, I was beginning to think your friend didn't exist."

"Well, he does. And he actually grew up not far from here."

Esther's eyes widened. "You did?"

Steve nodded. "Windsor Terrace."

By the time Esther had finished grilling Steve about his childhood, their food was done. She stuffed it into a handle-less brown bag along with two sides of homemade chips and a pair of black and white cookies that were larger than Bucky's hand.

Bucky held out his credit card, but she shook her head and batted it away. "No charge."

"Esther, we can't accept."

"You can and you will. It's my restaurant and I'm too old for you to be arguing with me." She then turned her attention to Steve, effectively cutting off any more argument from Bucky. "Just make sure you come back. Twice a week is guaranteed to have you filling out your suit again in no time at all."

Panic briefly passed over Steve's face before he found the ability to say, "It was nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too, Steve," she said with a knowing smile, before making a shooing motion with her hands. "Now get. You clearly have other places to be."

"I don't understand what just happened," Steve said as they walked out of the deli.

"I have friends outside of the Avengers," replied Bucky.

"No, I know. Well, I didn't _know _but I was hoping." Steve's mouth slipped closed while his brain furiously worked to comprehend what had happened. "She seems nice," he finally decided. "I'm happy for you."

"Thank you."

Bucky led Steve a few blocks away to a small park that was relatively empty. A few people seemed to recognize them, but didn't approach. They did wave though, which Bucky returned with his free hand, and Steve did as well, after Bucky elbowed him in the side.

They sat on a bench and unloaded the brown bag. Bucky immediately dug into his sandwich, but Steve just picked at his.

"Clint told me what happened," Bucky began once his sandwich was gone. It would be safe for them to talk in this park, or anywhere in this neighborhood really. It was mostly filled with the elderly or retirees, who had shown time and time again that they weren't intimidated by who he had been, but who also understood the value of privacy, even in a public setting like this. In addition, years of previous experience showed Bucky that it would be easier to get Steve to talk like this, when they weren't facing each other, and there were plenty of things in the vicinity to focus on or to distract his hands.

Steve continued picking at his sandwich, where he was accumulating quite the tower of crust fragments in the paper wrapping. "I figured it was him or JARVIS. Maybe both."

"So are we going to talk about it?" Bucky asked after another long moment.

"Only if you really want to."

"I do." After a brief pause, Bucky added, "But if you don't want to talk about it with me, that's fine. But you have to talk to someone."

Steve looked over at Bucky and one corner of his mouth quirked upward. "You drag me all the way down here, _then _tell me I don't have to talk to you?"

Bucky shrugged. "I was craving a pastrami sandwich and you needed to get out. It's a win/win even if you don't say anything."

Steve nodded absently as he looked back to the park where an elderly couple was walking a dog across the green space. A few very long moments later, he softly asked, "Was it ever this bad… for you?"

"Worse."

Steve looked over at him in surprise.

"You remember everything," Bucky explained. "I still have gaps. I have no idea who I hurt or what I did."

Steve swallowed hard. "How did you get over it?"

"You know. You were there."

"I was, but it doesn't seem to be helping now."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Bucky snorted. That was typical Steve, wanting a lightning fast solution for himself, so he could get back out there, instead of taking the time to process and heal… Then again, that was true for almost everyone in the Tower, so maybe it wasn't all that unique to Steve after all.

"What did you always tell me?" Bucky prompted.

"To give it time. To give yourself a chance to heal," Steve recited listlessly.

"How is this any different?"

Steve's expression soured. "It's not." Then after a beat, he added, "Wish it was."

He wasn't the first one to think it. Bucky would take this from Steve in an instant if he could. He unfortunately had lots of practice with the unknown, and handling what he'd done under someone else's orders.

"Tell me something that's better," he said after a moment.

Steve scowled at Bucky. "Don't start that again. I'm—"

"Tell me something that's better."

Steve was quiet for a long time, then he replied, "My hands shake less."

"Something else."

"Food tastes better. Well, some of it."

"One more thing."

"I get it, Buck," Steve said unhappily. "I'm getting better."

"Then what's all this about?"

"It's been gone for almost ten days, and I still feel like this." Steve looked down as if to indicate his general mood. "And now Fury's wondering when I'll be back—"

"_What_?"

Steve nodded. "He called today. Asked how I was first. Waited a whole five minutes before throwing that out there."

"And what'd you tell him?"

"I can't, yet. Can't risk it."

"Steve, it's gone. I _promise_. You can't just lock yourself up for forever."

"I know," Steve said softly. "But I'm not ready."

That was fair enough, and since that was the longest conversation they'd had since the night before the doctor's visit, Bucky was ready to drop the subject for the day.

But then, Steve went on to say, "And Garcetti's assistant called me."

"What did they want?" Bucky asked, expecting it to be some PR call with little to no substance.

"He wants us to give a statement together," Steve said slowly, "to prove I'm not dead, and to show the world that I didn't try to kill him."

For a brief moment, Bucky saw red. That was a lot for a healthy person to deal with, let alone one who had been put through the physical and emotional wringer for the past three weeks. "God_dam_mit, Steve. Is my phone broken?"

A few feet away, a flock of birds rustled into flight, startled by his deep growl. The elderly couple looked over in concern, but Bucky threw on the widest grin he could manage and motioned that it was all under control; they didn't look totally convinced but they did continue their walk.

When Bucky turned back to Steve, he was staring intently at the ground and toeing at a leaf. "You guys are going through enough," he then said, as if that explained everything.

"That doesn't mean you don't tell me! This is important." Bucky waited for Steve to continue, and when he didn't, Bucky asked, "What are you going to do?"

Steve looked up from the ground, but his eyes didn't quite make it to Bucky's face. "I have to do it, I think," he said. "I've seen the news and the awful things people are saying about me, especially because I haven't been seen outside in almost three weeks, except for… you know."

"Have you talked to Tony?"

Steve shook his head. "I can't get past the bruises on his throat."

_God, Steve_. And for the second time this hour, Bucky wished there was a way he could take this all from Steve, who deserved a lot better than this shitty hand he'd been dealt.

"You need to talk to him," was all Bucky said. "He can help you with this." To emphasize his point, he reached out and grabbed Steve's arm. "I'm serious, Steve. Don't agree to anything until you've talked to Tony."

"Buck—"

"Promise me. It doesn't have to be in person, but you have to talk to him."

Steve stared at Bucky for a long moment. "Okay, I promise."

Bucky released Steve's arm. "Good."

"But not today."

Every part of Bucky was screaming for Steve to do exactly that. To talk to Tony right now and come up with a game plan for how Steve was going to handle Garcetti and the rabid wolves otherwise known as the paparazzi. But then he saw how worn out Steve was, and how his friend was barely holding it together, even after unloading so much.

"Okay, Steve," Bucky said. Then he scooted over so he could wrap his arm around Steve's shoulders. "But tomorrow."

Steve shrugged.

"Tomorrow," Bucky repeated, emphasizing his point by tapping on Steve's shoulder with each syllable.

Steve made a face, but after a long moment, he nodded. "Okay, Buck. I'll ask him tomorrow."

* * *

**This didn't fit the mood of the chapter, but on the way back to the bike, Steve is going to reminisce about how Clayton Foster tried to call Bucky "Jimmy" in the 5****th**** grade and Bucky almost broke his nose. Bucky is going to shove him lightly (because Steve's balance isn't totally ready for quick movements yet) and their banter will digress from there. **

**Thanks for reading! Just one more chapter to go!**

**(Also, if anyone is interested, I have an idea for a 5+1-esque one-shot about how Esther comes to "adopt" the rest of the Avengers that I'll be working on after this. And yes, to totally mix interests here, at some point Bucky is going to order a pastrami on rye, causing Esther's grandson who is working the counter to quip if Bucky wants that with a sour pickle; upon finding out that Bucky had no idea what her grandson was referring to, Esther gets her grandson to set Bucky and Steve up with a bootleg of the original **_**Newsies **_**cast, and, well, I still need to write how that's going to end up. I hope you'll join me for that little adventure too!)**


	21. Chapter 21

"I look ridiculous," Steve said, three days later. He was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the walk-in closet of his suite at the Tower and was scowling at the suit the SI PR department had picked out for him.

It had taken most of the day after his trip with Bucky to work up the courage to talk to Tony about Garcetti's proposal. In the end, he'd gone down to the gym and ran on the treadmill for over an hour—under JARVIS' supervision and with any speed over six suspended—to tire out his nerves before he'd texted Tony to ask if he was free.

_I'm never free_, Tony had responded, followed by a quick, _I'm in my lab._

Once in the lab, Steve kept his eyes very firmly on Tony's face, not letting them stray down to Tony's neck where just the faintest remnants of his fingerprints remained, as he explained the situation. After a series of rather impressive curses, Tony promised he'd handle it.

And handle it he had. Within hours, the branch of SI PR devoted to the Avengers had confirmed the event with Garcetti and were handling transport to and from the White House. Over the next few days, they'd covered everything from holding focus groups for the team's formal wear options to determine which ones resonated best, to writing a carefully prepared statement for Steve to review.

"It's a little… bland," Steve had said to Tony, while attempting to repay Tony's generosity with a home-cooked meal.

"It's perfectly non-specific. Trust me, Cap. You don't want to be giving the vultures any details. Just read the statement and take your seat. No ad-libbing, no improvising, nothing." When Steve hadn't responded, Tony had reached over and tapped the back of his hand. "I know that seems hypocritical, coming from me, but this is a time you need to play it as straight as an arrow, so everyone can get this out of their systems and we can move on."

It wasn't like Steve had much choice. The truth would cause mass hysteria, and he would not offload that to ease his guilty conscience. So for the public to continue living their lives in blissful ignorance, Steve would step in front of the camera and read the bland, detail-less statement with all the conviction he could muster.

Technically, Steve was the only one who had been invited to the press conference, but upon hearing that one was scheduled, the rest of the team had loudly and emphatically declared they were going along.

"For moral support!" Clint had declared, with a wide and open-mouthed grin to show the lack of wires on his teeth. Steve was so moved by the fact that they, a group of people who typically shied away from the spotlight, were purposefully putting themselves in one today, for him, that his body almost burst into a round of unbidden tears before he regained enough control to thank them with dry eyes. He was however going to need to do something special for them, when this was all over, to show his gratitude.

And so here Steve, Bucky and Tony stood, just a few hours before the press conference, wearing the outfits that had been carefully cultivated by the PR team for the right balance of individuality, formality, and honesty.

Steve's suit was black with a crisp white shirt underneath, and had been altered to show off his muscular form. He had shaved his scruff and trimmed his hair, which was currently gelled out of his face, though a few pieces had been left to artfully drape across his forehead.

"I'm just glad it fits," Tony said as he straightened out Steve's black satin tie. "I was worried about it and that cast."

In all the excitement of the press conference, it seemed almost underwhelming that Steve had gone in for his last check-up yesterday and had been given a clean bill of health. He wasn't ready for active duty, due to the lapses in his concentration and occasional balance struggles, but he had been cleared enough for desk duty, and if he wanted, training the probies. His hand and wrist, with help from Fitzsimmons' ultrasound device, had also healed enough for the grungy cast to be cut off, and Steve couldn't have been happier to be rid of the itchy thing. He'd almost regained full range of motion in his shoulder, in no small part due to Keisuke, who had strolled into Steve's hospital room only a few hours after he'd woken up last Tuesday, and informed Steve that this was not at all what he'd had in mind when he'd said he wanted Steve back for a check-up in three weeks; with his piece said, Keisuke had taken Steve back into his rotation, designed him a home program—that Steve was following religiously, whether he enjoyed it or not—and mandated in-person check-ins every few days to monitor Steve's progress. Finally, the repulsor burns on Steve's legs and hip had healed enough that they were no longer causing him any pain or discomfort. It was only the one in his abdomen, which had been the worst of the three, that had yet to fully follow suit.

Still, it couldn't be denied that Steve was healing at almost his normal speed again, which meant his return to duty could start being viewed as a mere formality, instead of a looming obstacle.

"Are you sure I can't just wear my uniform?" Steve asked, frowning at his reflection. While this suit fit him very well and was surprisingly comfortable, it just didn't _feel _right for this occasion.

"Yes," Tony said, without offering any additional explanation. He was dressed in a dark suit of his own, that was textured with large white checkers. His tie, impeccably knotted as always, was patterned with a busier check in a different shade. It should have been distracting, but somehow, along with the light-blue-lensed glasses on his nose and the gold Rolex on his wrist, it all worked in harmony.

Before Steve could reply, Natasha strode into the room, wearing a simple red sleeveless dress that was fitted around the bodice, but then flowed down into an ankle-length skirt. It accentuated her figure perfectly, without revealing too much, and hid the fact she had to wear a knee sleeve (neoprene, not metal) for the next few weeks. A thin white bolero that ran down to her elbows paired with white flats, and beachy curls that framed her face completed her soft, demure look. And yet, no one had any doubt that she could be battle-ready in an instant if the situation called for it.

"Steve could have been changing," Tony protested but Natasha just pushed past him so she had a full view of Steve.

"Not bad, Rogers," she said, looking him up and down. Then, she reached up and brushed Steve's hair off of his forehead, so it flew up over his ear. "And now, you can see your eyes."

She then pulled away from Steve and looked over her other two teammates. Bucky, who was standing off to the side to better allow Tony to fuss with Steve's outfit, was wearing a black button-down with small white polka dots, and a solid black leather jacket with matching slacks. He had made it very clear that he'd been willing to wear a suit, if that's what the situation required, but had subtly been surprised by the clothes he'd been handed… and later, not so subtly excited when he discovered this outfit held way more weapons than a standard suit would have.

"You're alright," Natasha deadpanned before turning back to Steve and poking the collar of his dress shirt under his lapel.

Tony rolled his eyes, clearly knowing his outfit surpassed just 'alright' while Bucky just shrugged, content with her assessment. Even though the team knew Bucky hated public anythings, he looked surprisingly at ease with these turn of events, and not like he was going to bolt at a moment's notice.

Just then, Clint walked into Steve's room, staring cross-eyed at his tie, which was technically knotted, but looked like it had been done by a three-year-old. "Can someone help me with this?" he asked.

Clint was on a crash course with Steve's bed since he had yet to look up from the knot he was mangling, but at the last second, he was saved by Bucky, who pulled himself away from the wall with a dramatic eye roll, caught Clint's shoulder and spun him around so they were facing each other. Then, Bucky quickly undid the damage Clint had started and tied an Eldredge knot into the navy material.

"Thanks," Clint said, staring down at the knot. His suit was a bit simpler than Tony's (navy with black lapel accents, over a plain white shirt), and he'd been bemoaning the lack of purple for the past few days, even after it'd been explained to him by the PR team that purple hadn't trended well. Yet, he'd shown up in the suit he'd been assigned, without any strange modifications, so he appeared to be grinning and bearing it for Steve's sake.

Then Clint turned to Steve and let out a low whistle. "Looking good, man."

"In my younger days, I'd be wondering who you bribed to get your wires out two weeks early," Tony said, tearing his gaze away from Steve to check his own appearance in the mirror. "But now I know better than to ask."

"For the record, I passed all necessary exams to get them removed," Clint retorted with a grin as he flopped down on Steve's bed. Natasha clucked something at him in Russian, and he made a face as he stood back up and straightened out his jacket. "_And_ I didn't even need Fitzsimmons to fudge my labs."

Tony didn't bother to respond, mostly because Natasha clearly had the situation under control.

"Help, please?" Bruce asked a beat later as he walked into Steve's room with his own tie flapping against his chest. He was dressed slightly more casually than the rest of the team, in clean, dark jeans and a softly checkered button-down. His sport coat was open and slightly wrinkled around the buttons, but somehow made his overall look that much more true to form.

"Does _anyone_ besides me and Barnes know how to tie a tie around here?" Tony questioned with a groan.

"Maybe we just wanted to hang out with you guys." With that, Clint grabbed the ends of Bruce's tie and made a perfect Windsor knot, all the while maintaining eye contact with Tony. He grinned widely and toothily when he was done, causing Tony to tip his head in acknowledgement of the feat.

"We need to be hitting the road, guys," Natasha announced, snapping her clutch closed and tucking it under her arm. "We can't have Steve be late for his big day."

Steve took this chance to venture into the conversation for the first time since Natasha had arrived. "Anyone seen Sam?"

"Here." As if on cue, Sam walked into Steve's room while struggling with the knot of his light purple tie, which stood out nicely against the dark purple of his shirt and the grey soft plaid of the suit and waistcoat.

Clint squawked upon seeing the color of Sam's suit and whirled around to face Natasha. "How come he gets a purple suit?"

"Apparently it trended better on him than you," Tony responded.

"That's ridiculous." Clint crossed his arms petulantly over his chest. "Haven't they seen my uniform?"

Sam tried one more time to fix his tie then gave up and asked for help. Bucky stepped forward and quickly tied another Eldredge knot, to match the one Clint was wearing.

"Oh, so you don't ream _him_ out for not knowing how to tie a tie?" Clint grumbled, still visibly offended by the idea that the world thought he didn't look good in purple. "Just the rest of us?"

"He has a concussion," Tony replied, running his fingers through the ends of his hair one last time before stepping away from the mirror. "He's the only one out of all of you who has an excuse."

"Or maybe I just don't wear ties that often," Sam said as he shifted so he could see himself in the closet mirror. "Fancy. Thanks!"

Now that the rest of the team was present and properly dressed, Steve allowed himself one last look at his appearance before they headed out. He was wearing a thin sheen of make-up to minimize (but not hide entirely) the bags under his eyes, and a slightly thicker one on his neck to cover up the shadows left by the Widow's Bites. They were practically healed and probably could have been left alone, but the PR team had informed him that now that 4k content was a thing, they couldn't leave anything to chance. It was as good as he could possibly look, considering everything that had happened to him. And he owed it all to Tony. He would not have been as equipped to handle this without him and the rest of the PR team.

Steve looked up at Tony, easier this time since the bruises around his throat were practically invisible under a similarly thick layer of concealer, and voiced those sentiments.

"We're all here for you," Natasha replied, sidling up next to Steve. "Plus, if anyone gets out of line, Barnes has at least six weapons on his person."

Clint squinted at Natasha from head to toe, in a way that was guaranteed to get anyone else, but apparently not him, swatted. "You have at least eight," he then said, "so Bucky's slacking."

Tony's head whipped around to look at Natasha, but kept his gaze pointedly on her face. "Where the hell are you hiding eight weapons in that get-up?"

Natasha just smiled, then sauntered out of the room. "Wheels up in five, boys."

"We'll see you up there," Sam said as he left, with Bruce and Clint trailing not far behind. Though Sam's balance and mental acuity was getting better by the day, it was still wise for him to have company for longer distances, on the off-chance his head began to hurt or his balance suffered.

With the four of them gone, that left Bucky, Steve and Tony alone in Steve's room.

"Remember to stick to the prompts today," Tony reminded Steve, patting the supersoldier's suit just over where the cards were sitting in his inside pocket. "Going off script at such a large event is a senior move. You have to work up to it."

"You know there's going to be a teleprompter, right?"

Tony shrugged. "Just in case. Besides, aren't you the one who always says it doesn't hurt to be prepared?"

"I don't think he's ever actually said that," Bucky interjected. "But I have a feeling we need to be heading to the garage, before Natasha leaves us behind." He then cleared his throat, which Tony, after a moderately awkward beat, took as his cue to leave.

"You sure you're up to this?" Bucky asked Steve once they were alone. He stepped to his left so he was directly in Steve's line of sight.

Steve took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, lengthened his spine, and nodded. "Let's do this."

* * *

This time, it was eerie landing on the White House lawn. As the Avengers disembarked, they were immediately sent through a metal detector, then another scanner which Bruce had rigged up to detect frequencies like the alien weapons. Steve couldn't help but grin slightly as he passed through both without setting them off, and didn't feel the need to mention the weapons Bucky and Natasha were carrying that somehow hadn't set off either.

The White House staff wasn't very subtle about shooting looks at the seven of them, as they were heavily escorted to the Press Room. Once there, they took the proffered seats in the green room and each accepted a bottle of water. They sat in silence while, on the other side of the curtain, they heard the sounds of minor adjustments being made: seats being rearranged, microphone checked, etc.

They had only been sitting for a few minutes when Garcetti walked in, flanked by eight Secret Service agents.

"Captain Rogers," Garcetti said warmly, walking directly over to Steve and holding out his hand. Stopped just behind him, the Secret Service agents tensed, and one even flipped the snap off of his weapon.

"Unnecessary," Clint called, but Steve motioned for him to back down. The agents were only doing their job; given what had happened the last time he (or Robinson) was here, Steve didn't hold it against them to be a little apprehensive.

Steve smiled thinly at the agents and rose to his feet. "Thank you for having me back, Mr. President," he said as he shook Garcetti's hand. "And for what it's worth, I'm incredibly sorry about your staff and men."

"Thank you," Garcetti replied. "But as I understand it was not your fault."

"Not directly, sir."

"Then we don't have to speak of it again." Garcetti waved off his men, who very reluctantly followed the unspoken order, then motioned for Steve to step closer. "Did you get the updates to my portion of the statement?" he asked in a softer tone.

"I did, sir."

"Any comments?"

"No, sir."

Garcetti nodded. "Good."

There was a rumble from the other side of the curtain, which indicated the reporters had been let in. "We'll give them a few to get settled, then go out." Garcetti looked over Steve's shoulder to the rest of the Avengers and asked, "Is that alright?"

When they nodded, he excused himself to discuss a matter privately with Vice President Collier.

The Avengers milled around anxiously for about three minutes, until the Secret Service walked on stage and calmed down the crowd. Then, they motioned for the Avengers make their entrance and to take the seats on the opposite side of the podium from their wing. Garcetti and his venerable army of agents were last in and took the remaining seats closest to the exit. From this vantage point, the Avengers were able to see that the stage was separated from the crowd by a clear bullet-resistant pony wall that hadn't been installed the last time Bellinger, the Press Secretary, had made a statement.

Now, Bellinger straightened his suit then walked up to the podium.

"President Garcetti and Captain Steve Rogers will be making a joint statement," he said once the room had quieted down. "They will not be taking questions afterward."

He waited until the room was completely silent before motioning Garcetti and Steve to the podium.

"My fellow Americans," Garcetti began. "Just over two weeks ago, a tragedy befell the White House. Four of my trusted agents and two of my closest advisors lost their lives in an unspeakable act of violence. Their names, which are displayed on the screen behind me, will never be forgotten, and will live on at the White House in remembrance of their dedication and service.

"You all know the man next to me and you know what he does." Garcetti paused to look over at Steve. "You have seen time and time again how he fights for our great nation and protects our freedoms. The two of us don't always agree on matters, but I know that when we need him, he will be there.

"The violence experienced at the White House was not the fault of Captain Rogers. Already injured from our welcoming event, he was ambushed outside of Avengers Tower that same morning by Clarke Robinson, who, as you might have seen, bears a remarkable resemblance to Captain Rogers. It was Robinson who then took Captain Rogers' place, invaded our House and killed my people. His own life was ended by the Secret Service when he refused to put down his weapon and turn himself in.

"I will now turn over the microphone to Captain Rogers, who has prepared a statement of his own, but first, I want to be painstakingly clear than neither the White House nor myself holds Captain Rogers responsible for this tragedy. Captain?"

Steve cleared his throat then stepped in front of the podium and pulled out his notecards, if for no other reason than to give his hands something to do.

"Thank you for having me today," he began, fully aware of every eye that was on him, and every light from every camera that was snapping pictures or recording footage.

"I would like to start by expressing my sorrow for the lives that were lost at Robinson's hand." Steve paused slightly as his throat clogged, but forced himself to continue. "Though I was not directly responsible, I feel as though I share some of the blame." Murmurs ran through the reporters, but they all stayed silent. "After all," Steve continued, "it was through my likeness that Robinson was allowed access to the White House.

"I am happy to report that I am recovering from my injuries and expect to be cleared for duty shortly. I will be ready to serve whenever you need me. Thank you."

He stepped away from the podium and the reporters surged forward in one solid mass. Most of the Secret Service raced to block them from clearing the divider while the rest escorted the Avengers, President Garcetti and Vice President Collier off stage.

"You did great," Tony said once they were safely backstage again.

"It feels dishonest," Steve said softly, his words barely audible over the roar of the reporters they'd left behind.

"We talked about this." Tony wrapped his arm around Steve's shoulder and pulled him close so no one could eavesdrop. "It's for their own good that they don't know what happened. That," he pointed over his shoulder to the commotion in front of the stage, "is just them finding out you have a doppelganger. Imagine the reaction if you…" one White House staff members was crossing in front of them, so Tony just shrugged, implying that Steve could figure out the rest.

"He has a point," Natasha said, under the guise of giving Steve a hug. "You should listen."

"Just take the win, Steve," Sam chimed in. "We get so few of them."

It was hard, especially in these circumstances, to agree, but as Steve had established multiple times over the past few days, there weren't any other viable options. Sure, this story had mostly been fabricated to keep him out of a lengthy trial and prison sentence, but it was backed by the very real fear of a public revolt and mass hysteria if the citizens of the United States, or even the world, were told the truth.

It felt wrong to be celebrating after the events of today, but Tony had planned a small get-together for that night and framed it as a 'glad Steve was finally better' party. Steve had still refused to attend, until Tony turned it into a formal evening, with proceeds from the ticket and alcohol sales going to the families of the Secret Service agents and advisors who the symbiote had killed. It still hadn't felt like enough to Steve, to combat all these families were going through, so he'd worked with Malcolm Krall, Tony's personal accountant, to set up anonymous funds for the victim's children and families, funneled from his back pay at SHIELD. He would have liked to have done more than that yet, but since he couldn't take public responsibility for what he'd done under the symbiote's control, it would have to be enough. For now at least.

It was at this event, many hours later, that Tony pulled Steve aside. "I know this is long overdue, but I need to tell you something."

Instantly concerned, Steve put down his beer and waited for Tony to continue.

"I'm sorry," Tony said.

"For what?" Steve asked, genuinely confused.

"For sealing that thing inside you. Alhambra said the tip of the staff broke off against your bone and by cauterizing your wound, I sealed it in."

"Tony." Steve gently grabbed Tony's tumbler so the genius would be forced to look at him. "You saved my life. Nothing that happened was your fault."

Tony blinked. "_Everything _that happened was my fault, what are you talking about?"

"If you wouldn't have cauterized the wound, I would have bled out. You didn't have a choice."

Tony opened his mouth, presumably to object, but Steve shook his head. "If I'm not allowed to blame myself, you aren't either."

Tony pulled a face and freed his tumbler from Steve's grip. "Has that actually worked on anyone?"

"I was hoping you'd be the first," Steve said with a grin. Then he downed the rest of his beer and asked, "Can we just… not think about it tonight?"

Sure, the guilt would still be there when the event was over, but for the first time in two weeks, Steve was hoping that, for two hours, he could be distracted into thinking about something else.

As if sensing what Steve needed, Natasha grabbed his hand and tugged him out to the dance floor. He was sure he stepped on her toes more than the floor, but as they moved across the room and he focused on the here and now—the melodic notes of the flute floating over the staccato of the piano, Natasha's simultaneously soft and calloused hand in his, the smell of his cologne mixing with her perfume, and the taste of the beer on his tongue—Steve felt deep within his heart that he wasn't alright and probably wouldn't be for a while. But one day, he just might be again.

* * *

_Epilogue_

It took a lot more work than even Steve had expected, but the next Friday, eight days after the press conference and just under five weeks after his original injury, he passed his physical fitness, mental and psychological assessments, exceeded expectations out on the range, and was cleared for active duty.

It had been a series of hard-fought battles, some which ended well, others not so much. For every instance when Steve's body stopped acting without his conscious consent, there was a time where his legs became so fatigued during a workout that they no longer supported his weight and dropped him to the ground. For every time he remembered something without really having to search for it, he forgot something extremely obvious, like where he was going or what he'd been doing. Every time a food tasted good, he found something else that he loved that still hadn't returned to its usual taste.

Spending time around his team was still difficult, but Steve was making an effort. It was hard to look at them and not see their bodies sprawled lifelessly over the helipad or the physical evidence of what his hands had done. But he forced himself out to the common room as much as he could manage, especially as the bruises started fading, Natasha no longer needed her metal knee brace, and Sam could hold an entire conversation without zoning out. It was never _easy, _but it became easier to manage.

The nightmares were about the only thing that hadn't faded. Every few nights, he'd jolt upright, his body covered in a cold sweat and his brain caught in the unending nightmare of watching himself kill his team in more and more horrific ways. But between the therapist he was seeing of his own volition, not coincidentally the same one who was helping Bucky through his trauma, and the advice from Clint and Bucky about how they'd handled their own nightmares, Steve was working through them. He wasn't sure any of it was actually helping, but he wasn't going to risk stopping, on the off-chance they were. The sooner he could get this all put behind him, the better off they'd all be.

"This is long overdue," Fury said, Friday afternoon, as he handed Steve back his badge, which had been updated to his old clearance level.

Steve smiled as he clipped it to his waistband of his jeans. "Thank you, sir."

And then came the wait for a call to action. Fortunately, it was only two days before a situation arose that required the Avengers' assistance, and for the first time in five weeks, all seven of them would handle the call. The Avengers had been operating at a skeletal crew since right after the second attempted assassination. First, it had been just Tony, Bucky, and Bruce, but as time wore on, they were joined by Clint, Natasha, then finally Sam as each healed and passed their own tests to return to the field. On these missions, Steve, who had yet to be cleared himself, had been allowed to ride along or join the War Room, but had been calmly informed by multiple parties what would happen to him if he went out there before he was fully cleared. So he sat there, doing the best job he could behind the screens to ensure his team's safety.

After each mission, no matter how successful, the public always wondered where Captain America was. Had he lied during the press conference when he said he was recovering? Had Captain America truly killed Garcetti and been killed in the process, meaning the person who had given the press conference was Clarke Robinson, who was now going to masquerade as the real Steve Rogers?

It was all hearsay, but Steve had refrained from commenting on any of it, virtually or otherwise. Today, he was ready to show the public that he, Steve Rogers, _not_ Clarke Robinson, was back and ready for action.

That was almost the exact second Steve realized that the last time he'd seen his stealth suit was the day he—well, the symbiote—had tried to kill President Garcetti, and he had no idea if Tony had repaired it or not.

Which left him in the awkward position of heading down to Tony's lab to ask the genius in person. If worse came to worse, SHIELD still had his Battle of New York uniform, but Steve would rather not wear it if there was another option.

In the center of the lab, Tony was hunched over the Iron Man suit's right gauntlet, seemingly indifferent to the call to assemble the team had just received.

"Are you going out?" Steve asked once the glass door slid open.

"Sure am," Tony replied. "Just need to finish—" He yelped as he shocked himself with a long metal stylus.

Before Steve had taken one step, DUM-E whirred by him, holding a tray filled with bandaids, instant ice packs, and a pair of rubber gloves. The robot stopped near its master and lifted the tray to Tony's shoulder height.

"Thanks, bud," Tony said, patting the bot on its claw while he picked up the pair of gloves.

DUM-E positively preened under Tony's ministrations, then slid the tray onto the workbench, beeped twice and rolled off.

Tony pulled on the gloves then looked over at Steve, who was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. "You're not going out like that, are you?"

"Hopefully not. D—"

"I couldn't save your stealth suit," Tony interjected, not sounding the least bit apologetic. "There wasn't enough of it _to_ save, and it carries a lot of memories we'd all rather forget."

Tony held up his hand. "And if you apologize again, I will sic DUM-E on you."

Steve clamped his mouth closed. For about a second. "Do you have my old suit, by any chance?"

"You mean the condom suit? No, thank you. You've been through too much this last month to go out looking like that."

Steve wanted to protest that it wasn't that bad, but even he couldn't make the words leave his mouth. "Do you have something else I could wear?" From the way Tony was acting, Steve suspected so, and for the amount of effort the genius had probably put into it, he could play along until Tony was ready for the big reveal.

"I do." Tony pointed over his shoulder as he leaned down and reexamined the gauntlet. "Go try it on."

Steve's new suit was sitting in a neat pile by the bathroom, under a helmet that resembled the one from his stealth suit, except this one had brighter detailing on both the 'A' in front and what Tony called "the Wings of Liberty" over his temples. Next to the suit was a pair of brown combat boots with red accents around the calves and ankles.

"What do you think?" Tony asked, over the humming of whatever he was doing to the gauntlet.

Steve gently batted aside the helmet and held up the suit by the shoulders. His first thought was that Tony had repaired his WWII uniform, but then he noticed the small differences: the way the red was woven into the abdomen, instead of on the straps that connected the top of his suit to the utility belt; the increased padding and protection in his legs, especially around his knees and shins; the way the harness for his shield was separate, and not a part of the original uniform.

"It's beautiful," he breathed, turning it so he could see the back. He looked over at Tony and shook his head in disbelief. "Thank you."

In typical Tony fashion, he just waved his free hand dismissively. "Glad you like it. Now, go suit up, Cap. We have an army of angry bots on a collision course with Times Square."

Steve shot Tony the snappiest salute he could manage without dropping his new suit, then headed into the bathroom to change.

* * *

When Steve walked onto the quinjet twenty minutes later, most of the rest of the team had already assembled. Bucky had his numerous weapons laid out on the metal counter welded to the site of the quinjet and was systematically examining each one. On the other side, Clint was doing a similar thing to his arrows before carefully arranging them in his quiver. Bruce, in a pair of stretch-proof pants and a cheap shirt, was in the cockpit going through the pre-flight procedures, while Sam was off to Steve's right, adjusting the straps of his wings.

He stopped as soon as Steve walked in. "It's good to have you back," he said, holding out his hand.

"It's good to be back," Steve replied as they quickly ran through their handshake.

He was happy to report that it was, in fact, the truth. From the moment he'd done up the final attachment of the suit and slipped his shield onto his back, _right_ was the only way to describe how it felt. Sure, he was nervous for his first mission back since being stabbed, controlled by a symbiote, and almost dying multiple times, but the feeling was tempered by the reassuring weight of the star on his chest and the shield on his back.

When the handshake was finished and they'd pulled apart, Sam let out a low whistle. "Tony really outdid himself," he said as he looked over the suit and motioned for Steve to spin around so he could see it from all sides.

"Where is he, anyway?" Natasha asked, appearing out of nowhere and startling the two of them.

"Finishing up his gauntlet," replied Steve.

Natasha nodded, then looked Steve over from head to toe as well. "Sam's not wrong," was all she said, before she headed toward the front of the quinjet.

It was then that Steve realized Bucky hadn't yet turned around. In fact, every inch of his rigid posture was sending off strong "don't engage" vibes.

_He okay? _Steve mouthed to Sam, who shrugged.

Steve then walked over to Bucky and knocked his elbow against his friend's—after Bucky put his current weapon down, of course. "Everything alright?"

"You're about as subtle as a brick to the head," Bucky retorted as he picked up another handgun, pulled out the magazine and counted the remaining bullets.

Steve reached out and put his hand over the barrel of the gun, keeping Bucky from avoiding the conversation. "If you're worried about me, I'm fine."

"I know you are," Bucky replied. He flicked the gun to the left, dislodging Steve's hand, then slipped the magazine back in.

"So what's up?"

Bucky blew out a long breath then looked over at Steve. "It's nothing," he finally admitted. "I guess I am just a little..."

"Worried?"

"_Concerned_," Bucky quickly corrected. "It's only been two days."

Two days of him since he'd been cleared by SHIELD, but honestly, Steve had probably been combat ready for the last five, if something had occurred before today. Steve also understood that Bucky wasn't being hypocritical to their conversation back in Brooklyn. His friend wanted and still encouraged Steve to start getting out of the Tower, whether to go to the store or run around the city, but that was an entirely different beast than him going out into battle, against an army of fully-weaponized robots. After everything that had happened over the past five weeks, it was a lot to be back, but at the same time, there was never going to be a good time to get back in the proverbial saddle.

Deep down, Steve knew Bucky knew that too.

He reached over and grabbed his friend's hand. "I'm okay, Buck. Really."

"I know." Bucky let out another long exhale then shook his head. "Just maybe… for once in your life, be careful today?"

It wasn't something Steve could outright promise, but he could honestly say that he'd try.

They stood in silence for another moment before Bucky threw off Steve's hand and began attaching weapons to his uniform. "What are you over here worried about me for? Don't you have a strategy to plan? An evil doctor to take down?"

"Maybe for good this time?" Clint called from the other side of the quinjet. "I was in the middle of binge-watching _Stranger Things_."

"You _are_ a stranger thing," Natasha quipped as she walked into the cabin and took a scan of its occupants. "Someone better get Stark in here before I leave without him."

At that exact moment, Steve heard a noise behind him. "Your wish is my command," a metallic voice said as the Iron Man armor stepped onto the ramp, then peeled away to reveal Tony, dressed in his undersuit.

"We're on the clock here," Natasha informed him.

"Don't chastise me. The suit needed upgrading. Next time Fury wants us to drop everything and fight Doom, have him give us more notice." With that, Tony sat down in his preferred seat, motioned for the armor to stand sentry in the corner, and strapped himself in. "Waiting on you guys now."

Steve felt a smile tug on the corner of his mouth as he slipped the shield off his back and slid into his seat. As the rest of the team followed suit—Bucky predictably on his right and Sam on his left—Steve pulled out his tablet, which had been synced with the latest data from the Doombots' path, and began to devise a plan of attack.

* * *

**And that concludes the longest fic I have ever written! Thank you all for coming on this journey with me!**

**Once again, super shoutout to RobotRollCall (or buckywiththegoodhair86 on Tumblr) who beta-read this fic for me. [If you enjoyed the epilogue, you have her to thank as well. I was going to cut it after the party scene, to which she politely asked if there was more.] This fic wouldn't be what it is today without her cheer-reading and guidance.**

**"What's next?" you may ask. I have plans for the "Esther adopts the Avengers" one-shot but after that, who knows? I've finally reached the end of the backlog of fic ideas. That's not to say more won't happen, but for the first time in a long time, my muse is not assaulting me with 86 different plotlines, all demanding to be written at the same time. I suspect I will have lots of gaps to fill for **_**The Falcon and The Winter Soldier**_**, whenever that finally airs...**

**Thank you so much for all your support for this story, whether it was on Tumblr during its planning phases, or with your hits, reviews and favorites. It means the world to me.**

**As always, thanks for reading, and if you have a second, I'd love to hear what you thought on the way out!**


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